The Morgan Chronicles
by foreverHenry919
Summary: Henry learns that a new TV show called "The Morgan Chronicles", based on the history of his family in England and Wales, is being filmed in his childhood home in London.*** I do not own "Forever" or any of its characters.***
1. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 1

Summary: Henry learns that a new TV show called "The Morgan Chronicles", based on the history of his family in England and Wales, is being filmed in his childhood home in London.

Notes: I do not own "Forever" or any of its characters.

vvvv

"Morning, Pops," Abe greeted his father. He pointed to the bacon and eggs on the warming tray, never lifting his eyes from the newspaper article he was reading.

"Good morning, Abraham," Henry cheerfully replied. He quickly grabbed a plate from off of the counter and filled it up with two each of the bacon and eggs and slid into the chair at the small kitchen table opposite his son. "Pray tell, what has grabbed your attention so much this morning that you can't lift your eyes from the newsprint for even one second?" he teased.

"Oh, sorry, Dad," Abe replied, his eyes still darting back and forth and down as he read the remainder of the article with a frown. He then widened his eyes, puckered his lips and let out a low whistle. He softly guffawed and threw the paper down on the table between them. "You'd better read that," he said, pointing at a bold headline near the bottom of the page: "New BBC Drama 'Morgan Chronicles' to Rival Downton-Abbey".

Henry took a bite of buttered toast before picking up the paper and perusing the article. Paper in one hand and coffee cup in the other, he sipped and frowned more and more as he finished reading. The paper plopped from his hand back onto the table between them. "Hmmm." He calmly resumed eating his breakfast.

Abe watched him at first excitedly then sat forward in his seat, confused. "Is that all you've got to say is 'Hmmm'?"

"Just what do you expect me to say?" his attention fully on consuming his meal.

Abe flustered for a response, waving his hands in front of him. "Well, uh ... aren't you the least bit interested? The TV Drama is going to chronicle the Morgan family, your family, our family from their rise to power beginning in the 1700's to their gradual decline in the 1970's."

Henry listened attentively, nodding his head and eating. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and sipped again from his coffee cup. "And why would that be of interest to me - excuse me, to us?" He placed the cup back in the saucer, tilted his head to one side and locked eyes with Abe.

Abe spread his hands with his eyebrows raised, his mouth slightly ajar, his head shaking. He picked up the paper again and read the article. "This is why: 'The series begins with Peter and Anna Morgan in 1771, but the central character is their elder son, Henry, born 1774'. Those are your parents and the son is you!" He jabbed his index finger at Henry. "Never mind that their names and your birth year are off a little, it's your family, your life that will be ... spewed out once a week for the whole world to see."

Henry grimaced slightly and replied, "Spewed, agghh, you make it sound so distasteful - which it is," he added, rolling his eyes and spooning the last of his eggs and bacon into his mouth.

Abe waved a hand dismissively and said, "Okay. Make jokes. But you'll be sorry when this thing airs on the BBC America Channel this Saturday, tomorrow night." He wagged his finger and squinted an eye at him. "Very sorry."

"Look, Abraham, what am I to do?" he sighed, leaning back and smoothing his hands down the front of his waistcoat. "It's not like there would be anywhere in the world that I could hide if the show is aired in the U.S., and abroad. Besides, do you know how many people in the UK carry the Morgan surname? It's the most - "

" - common surname in Wales, this I know," Abe dryly finished, nodding his head. He'd heard the lecture from his youth and knew it well.

"And Peter, Anna, Henry, those are common given names." Henry wiped his mouth one last time with his napkin and placed it beside his empty plate. "And," he hung on the word as he checked the time on his pocket watch, "it's a television show. Another amateurish attempt at dramatization of life in that era, this time for a fictitious family bearing the surname Morgan." He stuffed his watch back into his waistcoat pocket.

"Besides, my parents' names were Robert and Martha; and I was their second son. You and I have absolutely nothing to worry about," he reassured him. With that, he rose from his chair and walked over to the coat rack and plucked his outer coat and scarf off of it and put them on.

"Don't wait dinner for me, Abraham," he smilingly advised as he walked back over to him. "Jo and I have a date; dinner and a movie." He then leaned down, hugged his son around the shoulders and headed for the stairs.

Abe crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "What? No phone call from Jo about a dead body?"

"No," he said, pausing on the third step from the top. He turned slightly back around and added, "We closed a rather difficult case two days ago. Things have been pretty quiet since then. The lull in which people feel the need to end someone else's life is most greatly welcomed."

Abe watched his father disappear down the stairs and out of the shop. He turned his attention back to the NY Times article and re-read it. "I certainly do hope you're right, Pops," he murmured to himself. He then tossed the folded paper into the adjacent sitting room where it landed squarely on the coffee table. "Eat your heart out, Larry Byrd."

vvvv

"Hey, Henry." Jo greeted him as he strode towards her desk in the 11th precinct's bullpen.

"Hello, Detective," he replied and sat down in the metal chair next to her desk.

"Where are your dark glasses?" she jokingly asked.

He smiled, furrowing his brow and darting his eyes back and forth. "Dark ... glasses ... ?" He rolled his shoulders quickly back, clasping his hands in his lap. "Whatever do you mean, Detective?"

Still smiling, she pulled out her personal cell phone and tapped on it to reveal an email notification from the online version of the NY Times. "Read," she instructed, handing the phone to him. She pulled her lower lip in, licking it as she watched him.

He sighed and handed the phone back to her. "Oh, that," he flatly replied, his cheerful manner tempered a bit.

"Well, isn't that about your family? You're like ... a celebrity," she laughed, "and celebrities wear dark glasses so they're not recognized and won't get mobbed for autographs." She continued in a teasing vein. "Some guy, a Sir or Duke, claims to be a descendant of Peter Morgan through his son, Henry, and could be your twin brother." She turned the phone off and placed it back into her top desk drawer."

His playful frown turned serious as his eyes darted around the room but not at her. "Well, I suppose it's possible that, uh, he could be related ... " His voice trailed off as he searched his memories for any clue, any possibility that he and Nora ... no ... There was now a sinking feeling in his stomach that threatened to hurl his breakfast back up. His older brother, William, had died in the Napoleonic Wars, leaving neither wife nor offspring. Could Nora have actually given birth to their child without his knowledge? Could Abraham have been right in that there was reason for concern about this rubbish of a TV show airing?

"How about a raincheck on our date tonight?" she proposed. "Let's eat in, my place, and watch it."

He chuckled nervously and replied, "It doesn't air until tomorrow night."

"Officially," she said. "But tonight is an interview with your 'twin'." She covered her giggles with the side of her hand and hunched her shoulders. "He's going to conduct a tour of the estates and hint at some family secrets. The cache of letters and portraits that were uncovered at a cottage in Rooks Nest in ... somewhere ... are going to be examined." When he didn't immediately respond, she urged, "C'mon, it'll be fun seeing how your ancestors lived hundreds of years ago; got rich, made bad choices, got poor." As she spoke, she shook her shoulders and smiled playfully.

Really enjoying herself at my expense, he glumly noted. A house in Rooks Nest? It had been centuries since he'd heard anything about that place. Nora's family, the Perth family, had owned a great deal of land there. Her father, Sir Samuel Perth, had proudly commissioned their wedding portrait to be painted in that very cottage. He forced a smile, stood up and turned around stiffly to face her.

"Tonight, then." He nodded and made his way out of the bullpen and down to the safety and solitude of his office in the morgue. Once there, however, he received basically the same teasing from Lucas. Closing his office door and the blinds did little to ease his sense of foreboding about viewing the TV program that night with Jo.

vvvv

Jo nestled back into Henry's arms as they sat on her couch watching the opening credits and accompanying music of BBC America's special presentation of "The Making of the Morgan Chronicles". She hugged the large bowl of popcorn to her so that they both would have easy access to it.

"Aren't you excited?" she asked him, nestling deeper, nudging the bowl of popcorn at him. "We're both gonna learn a lot of things about your family and its past. Who knows? Maybe you'll find out that you're related to the Royal Family or something."

He smiled but not with his eyes, as he briefly eyed the popcorn. The distinguished, white-haired host, Cyril Marbeth, appeared onscreen, eloquently welcoming the viewers and introducing Lord Henry Morgan, who would graciously allow their cameras into his private residence for the first time ever. The Lord's physical appearance drew more from the red-headed, fairer skinned Perth family than from the darker, curly-haired Morgan family, he clinically observed. But the lilt of the voice, his accent, definitely Welsh. Henry listened closer as the cameras followed the man onscreen past the massive entry door into an expansive entry hall and the music swelled. The titled man turned to the camera and extended his right arm up and back. As he bowed ever so slightly from the waist, flashing a most dazzling smile, he bid, "Welcome to my home, Trillingham Manor."

The broadcast cut away to no less than five back-to-back sponsor announcements and commercials; then returned all too abruptly for Henry's liking, to find the TV host and His Lordship standing before a large painting that he recognized as one that had hung in his father's study shortly before he'd died of consumption in 1814. Why did he feel such a tightening in his chest? Why did he feel so threatened by the public airing of these long-forgotten artifacts? No one alive today could possibly know that he was the little boy standing in the forefront left of his mother in that large portrait. No one could possibly know, not even his onscreen namesake.

" ... his wife, Martha," Lord Henry was saying as he pointed to the figure of a woman in the painting, "seated and holding their youngest child, Sarah." He continued, naming each of the other painted figures and then pointed to the young boy in the forefront. "This is their son, Henry David Longworth Morgan, the central figure in the saga."

Jo's jaw dropped and she turned a surprised but happy expression to Henry. "That's your full name, too, isn't it?" She nudged him in the ribs and grinned, returning her attention to the broadcast. "You _know_ you're related to them!"

"So, the mother's name was actually Martha, not Anna?" the TV host inquired for clarification.

Annabeth was her middle name, Henry recalled, frowning. She never cared for the 'beth' tacked onto the end of it. Over time, she'd convinced everyone that her middle name was simply Anna. He cringed when Lord Henry gave an almost verbatim reply. How in the world did he know that?! Was this some kind of elaborate joke being played on him? He shook his head slightly, causing Jo to turn her gaze away from the TV screen and to him.

"You okay?" (Yes.) "You cold?" (No.) "I can turn up the heat."

"No!" He swallowed and apologized for having startled her. "I'm fine, Jo. Really." He forced a weak smile and threw a small handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Back from another onslaught of commercials, the onscreen duo was still in his father's study. The camera panned back and around the room, closing in on the massive wooden desk his father had spent so many hours behind when he was at home. The camera pulled back to allow the viewers to take in the size and beauty of it. Tears smarted at the backs of his eyes as he recalled the time he'd argued with him in that study. His father had risen from his chair, walked around to the front of it and leaned back against that same desk while offering feeble excuses for his decision to participate in the abominable and detestable slave trade. At the time, he'd been so upset over his father's decision that his unhealthy pallor, sweaty brow, general weakness and body-wracking coughs had gone virtually unnoticed by him. A physician. A healer. Oblivious to his own father's physical suffering in a blind moment of anger. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh, which did not go unnoticed by Jo.

"Henry," she said, placing the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and twisting in her seat to face him, "Are you ill? I mean, it just doesn't look like you're enjoying yourself." Genuinely concerned, she placed her palm on his forehead but he gently pulled her hand away.

"I'm, I'm fine, Jo." He forced a shaky laugh. ' _Morgan, you can do better than this! Put on your lying face!'_ he hissed to himself. It was enough to allow his attempt at another fake laugh that sounded more believable.

"It's just that I ... " The camera panned in on the lounge his father had last lain on and died on. His breath caught in his throat as he recalled how he'd sheepishly crept into the study and sat down on the edge of it. His father had looked so weak, his pallor worsened to a grayish tinge that he'd found unbearable to view. And, he a physician. As much death and disease he had seen at that time, he'd been afraid to look upon his father's face that indicated a fast-approaching end. Almost in unison, his thoughts played out in his mind along with Lord Henry's account of how his father had gifted his pocket watch to him moments before his death.

"He died with his eyes open," Henry said aloud but barely above a whisper.

Lord Henry echoed his words causing Jo to frown, although she kept her eyes trained on the TV screen.

"I reached over and closed them," Henry continued, fighting back tears but feeling very strongly that he was going to lose that battle. He was fast losing his composure, his breaths coming in short, uncontrollable hitches. He leaned forward with his hand over his eyes.

Jo was truly concerned now. She placed her hand on his arm and said, "Henry, if this is upsetting you this much, we don't have to watch it." She picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. Setting it back down on the coffee table, she bent her head down to try to meet his eyes, but he kept his eyes hidden under his hand, his head bent down. She could feel him trembling; the kind of trembling that came from trying too hard to hold tears back and all too familiar to her in the first year after Sean's death. But she had no idea what to do to comfort him or even why he was so upset. Over a TV broadcast of events that had happened hundreds of years ago to people, he'd never even known? Regardless, she pulled him close to her in a sideways hug and rested her cheek against the side of his head.

For several moments they sat like that not saying a word. While she gently rocked and held him, the only sounds were her murmured assurances that it was 'going to be okay' and an occasional muffled sob that escaped from him. After nearly ten minutes, he took in a few deep breaths and removed his hand from his eyes, raising his head slowly. He swallowed and leaned his head back into the top of the cushions, closing his eyes. Jo watched him sorrowfully, still not quite understanding what to say to comfort him and wondering what had upset him so. She pushed her questions aside and kissed him softly on the cheek, her hand cupping and caressing his other cheek.

He responded with a tight embrace. Leaning down, he kissed her on the side of her forehead and tightened the embrace. She closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest, her hand near her face. He covered her hand with his, caressing it then pressing his lips into her palm. "Sorry, Jo. You must think me daft."

She pushed herself up to look him in the eyes. Normally she would have teased him over his use of the obsolete term, daft, and suggested a more modern one to him for future use. This was no time for levity, she realized. "No, Henry. I'm just ... confused as to why watching this upset you so." He stiffened slightly and seemed to wince, causing her to wince, as well. They'd learned that they were two of a kind; both having experienced pain and loss. For that reason, they would quickly recognize and react to the other's pain.

"Don't worry about that, Jo. It, uh, reminded me of some painful times in my life, specifically, the death of my own father. My pocket watch was a gift from him; a family heirloom." He hoped that that explanation would suffice long enough for her to forget that he'd let it slip that he'd reached over and closed his father's eyes. What had ever possessed him to admit such a thing out loud? To her? Was he so madly in love with her that guilt over keeping his secret hidden from her had finally driven him mad? Or was he ... trying to tell her about his secret? Confusion swept over him now. He gently pushed her away and quickly stood up, rubbing his hand over his face. Blinking several times, his confused gaze rested on her.

"What is it, Henry? What's wrong?" Jo was growing even more concerned. She stood up next to him and placed her hands on either side of his face, caressing his cheeks with her thumbs. When he failed to respond, she asked, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

There. There it was. She hadn't missed his slips of the tongue earlier. A stellar detective who possessed a skillful art of digging into the heart of the matter to unveil the truth. What was he to do now? What could he tell her? Another lie or ... finally the truth?

Sometimes when a person suffering from depression suddenly appears more relaxed and in a better mood, it's because they've made a decision. A decision to end their life. And shortly after, they do just that. Even though he had ... experimented ... in the past by ending his life several different ways in a vain effort to reach a final end, he was neither depressed nor suicidal now. But he had made a decision and somehow it had worked to calm him and clear the confusion from his mind. Quite the opposite of wanting to end his life, he now wanted to live his life ... with Jo. As he gazed into her lovely, brown eyes full of concern for him, he wondered how he could have waited so long. Abe was right, he told himself. She was special. She could be trusted. He pulled her close against him and clung to her, breathing in all the soft and delightful smells that were uniquely her; with each breath, he grew stronger and more confident. It was time. And it felt right.

"Yes, Jo," he softly replied, tugging her back over to the couch. "There is something I want to tell you." They sat on the couch again and he picked up the remote and gave it to her. "You can turn the program back on now. I ... haven't quite mastered the function of this," he chuckled. She smiled, clicked the remote and placed it back down on the coffee table.

The English countryside now sped past the camera's view from the inside of a vehicle driven by Lord Henry. The TV host's voice narration had concluded just as Jo had clicked the TV back to life. An overhead shot took in an occasional herd of sheep, farmhouses, barns, and more modern structures nestled in amongst the lush, sloping greenery. The onscreen voices were silent as mellow travel music played and the viewer was invited to drink in the beauty of the changing landscape. However, certain landmarks, the slope of the hillsides and the familiar wind of the now paved roadway still spoke the destination to him after two centuries: the cottage at Rooks Nest. At first, he'd wondered how to begin his long story but he realized that by using the TV show's progression as a guide and staying just one step ahead of the storyline, could make his story more believable to her. He took a deep breath and started to speak.

"Henry?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Sorry." He dipped his head towards the TV and said, "They're headed to the cottage at Rooks Nest in Hertfordshire. I remember that place very well ... "

For the next hour and 45 minutes, he let her in on some of the more intimate details of his long story conveniently corroborated by the program's narratives and visuals.

vvvv

Jo's POV

"Good night, Jo."

"G'nite, Henry." She then closed the door even though he still stood there staring at her with an apologetic, haunting and almost pleading look in his eyes. After several moments, his footsteps echoed his departure. Not until she heard the sound of Abe's car door opening and closing, then the car revving away, did she move from the door and back to the living room. The cushions on the sofa still bore the impressions of where he and she had sat together just three hours before. The bowl of popcorn now cold and mostly untouched. What had started out to be a fun but relaxing evening in front of the TV had immediately turned into one of the most bizarre experiences of her life. Her unofficial crime-solving partner, her best friend, the man she was slowly falling deeply in love with had confessed to her that he lived forever. No. That he would probably live forever because he could die, but could not stay dead; that he was ... immortal ... ?

 _"How is that even possible, Henry?"_

 _"I've yet to discover why or how, Jo. Only that it began after my first death in 1814."_

 _"Are you aware that what you're saying doesn't sound real? That it makes no sense?"_

 _"I'm fully aware (sigh) and believe me if I could change the reality of the life I've lived for the past 200 years and make it into something sensible, I would."_

When he'd begun spinning his fantastical tale, they'd been cuddled up close together, as usual, in full lover's mode. As the evening progressed and his story grew longer, she'd found herself more than an arm's length away from him, nervously perched near the edge of the sofa. At some point, she'd grabbed a bottle of something dark that went down hard, from the liquor cabinet. The two empty glasses on the coffee table confirmed that. Her unsettled stomach and weak knees also confirmed that they, or, at least, she, had guzzled a lot of it in an attempt to digest his improbable words.

 _"Stop, please, just stop!"_

 _"I'm sorry, Jo. It wasn't my intention to upset you."_

 _"Upset me? (she'd laughed) Upset me. Henry, you're either totally insane ... which I'm not ruling out ... or I should believe you, which would make me totally insane. (shook head) Not sure which is worse."_

The attractive detective shook her head and closed her eyes, sighing as she gathered up the empty glasses and placed them in the sink. Looking around for the bottle of liquor but not finding it, she reminded herself to look for it in the morning. The lightly buttered, piping hot popcorn, previously delicious, was now cold, greasy garbage. She ran her fingers through her dark brown mane after disposing of it and set the empty bowl in the sink next to the glasses.

 _"I love you, Henry, but ... "_

 _"Please don't say that, Jo, please just listen to me."_

 _"I have listened to you for the past three hours and none of what you've told me makes any sense. I just have to ... think things through."_

 _"While you're thinking things through, don't forget what I told you about my reviving in the river. Think about when you saw me fall off the rooftop of Grand Central - "_

 _"Stop. Just. Stop."_

 _"You saw me fall off that roof, Jo, along with Koehler. Check the times of when you saw me on surveillance tape entering that subway car that crashed three years ago, killing everyone on board."_

 _"Hen-reeeee ... " (shaking head, sighing)_

 _"Check the time of my arrest for public nudity only minutes after the crash on the other side of town!"_

 _"Look, I said I would think things through. Just ... for now ... please leave."_

It was easier to just crash on the sofa, but she didn't want to be lulled to sleep by the smell of liquor, cold, greasy popcorn and ... and the man's aftershave. That man with his accent, his endless supply of beautiful, expensively made scarves, his impeccable manner of dress and that smile that had lit up her life! Sean had been the love of her life. She would always love him and had come to believe that her heartache and loneliness could always be soothed by hiding them in memories of him. She had grown comfortable with that, telling herself that those exercises in grief helped her to avoid becoming a cat lady.

But three years ago, she'd met a Medical Examiner named Dr. Henry Morgan. As dapper as he was eccentric; as mysterious as he was charming. Impossibly secretive and impossibly handsome, knowledgeable on a supernatural level and frustrating on an even higher level. Somehow her enigmatic colleague had managed to infiltrate her carefully constructed cocoon of emotional protection. Despite her resistance and her commitment to self to remain aloof and, safely avoid human entanglements, a little over a year ago, she'd found herself closely monitoring and even applauding his progress in deconstructing her cocoon.

 _"We're two halves of the same whole," she'd once softly declared to him, starry-eyed, comfortable, and excited at the same time, in his arms._

 _"And you, the better half," he'd grinned lopsidedly and kissed her on the tip of her nose._

The lump in her throat was connected to the break in her heart, she just knew it. She was in love with a crazy man. As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, her legs felt like lead and she feared that a sudden trip to the bathroom outweighed the need for sleep. Liquor and greasy popcorn don't mix, she ruefully told herself. Especially while an unbelievable yarn of a person being immortal and unable to stay dead was being added to the mix.

After an extended but necessary stay in the bathroom, she slumped her way to her bedroom and curled up on top of the covers in a near fetal position. Sleep soon stilled her steadily clouded thoughts, allowing only a few tears to soak into her pillow. A convoluted dream spun with her dressed like Cinderella at a lavish banquet but with no fork or spoon to partake of the sumptuous offerings. A frantic and hurried search through the mansion's many elegantly furnished rooms finally produced a plastic spork but she was unable to find her way back to her seat at the banquet table. Morning found her in sweat-drenched clothes, emotionally drained, and nursing a headache bigger than the Rock of Gibralter.


	2. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 2

Henry's POV

"Good night, Jo." He stood there staring at her with an apologetic, haunting and almost pleading look in his eyes.

"G'nite, Henry." She then shut the door. Literally. But it was if she'd shut the door on _him_. Literally.

Although he still felt her standing silently on the other side of the door, after several moments he shoved his hands down into his coat pockets, then turned and slowly walked down the stairs feeling both dejected and abandoned. He hesitated a moment before getting into Abe's car and looked up at her red door. The worried Immortal had shivered from the slight rush of air that had hit him when she'd shut the door. The warmth in her large, lovely, brown eyes was now chilly apprehension; and the smile that had played at her full, luscious lips hours ago was now a thin, mirthless, line. He now repulsed her - the woman he loved. He just knew it. Now that he'd finally let her in and shared his long story with her, did she even think of him as human anymore? Did she now think of him as some sort of ... thing ... one of nature's horrifying jokes? Or, more likely, insane. The same as his first wife, Nora, had when he'd confided in her two centuries ago. He wasn't aware that he'd gotten into Abe's car until he heard the sound of the engine revving as the car sped away from her house and into the late night.

They rode in silence past two, three, then four stoplights. Abe had seen the strained look on Jo's face as she'd shut her door. His father's rigid stance and the dismay on his face once he'd turned around to descend the stairs spoke volumes to him.

"I take it that your date night didn't go well," he finally said, breaking the awkward silence, trying and failing at a lighthearted approach.

Henry scoffed loudly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes and remained silent. For now, he was content to watch the street scenes from his side of the car as they came and went. Tonight, he had taken his son's advice and shared his secret of immortality with Jo. And, no, he ruefully thought to himself, it did not go well.

"Talk to me, Henry," Abe urged. "I don't like what you might be thinking when you look this way." He stole a quick glance at his father and proceeded through the last intersection. They were less than two blocks away from their antiques shop.

"And what way is that?" he flatly asked.

"You know, visions of passports and midnight runs dancing through your head," Abe replied. He pulled up outside the shop and parked the car. He turned off the car, pulled the key out of the ignition and turned to face his father. "Let's at least talk it out before you decide to take off."

Henry heaved a deep sigh and opened his car door. "Abe. Despite your misgivings, I have no plans for a 'midnight run' or anything else of the sort. I just want to get inside and get some sleep," he said tiredly, exiting the car and closing the door.

Abe grunted and groaned as he exited the car as quickly as his aching bones would allow. "You're not getting off that easy," he loudly admonished Henry as he waited by the shop's door. Abe approached with the key and inserted it into the lock. "I wanna know what happened," he said. The shop's door flung open and they quickly entered; Henry, more quickly than Abe. He made a beeline for the stairs, anxious to escape his son's inquiring mind and eyes. In his opinion, a perfectly romantic evening had been ruined - by him - and he now deeply regretted having taken Abe's advice. But he knew that he couldn't blame any of it on his son. The times when he'd avoided serious repercussions whenever his secret had been revealed were rare. Time would tell if Jo's reactions and subsequent actions would fall into the rare category or not.

"Ah! Ah-ah-ah," Abe scolded Henry before he could make it all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom. Abe caught up to him, put his hands on his shoulders and steered him into the sitting area. "Sit, please," he gently ordered him.

Henry couldn't help but entertain a smile at his son's antics. Mildly amused at feeling defeated, he slowly took a seat on the couch next to the wizened man. His son. Only about a third of his age but possessing far more wisdom than he with regard to women and living a full life, not just existing. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap. "I told her," he simply stated.

"Great!" Abe exclaimed gleefully. He noticed the less than gleeful look on his father's face and his own smile faded somewhat. "But ... that look on her face and the one on yours now means that ... "

" ... it did not go well," Henry finished his thought for him. He rose from his seat and took a few paces toward the stairwell, then turned to face him. "I thought that it would be easier if I paired my words with the TV show, the, the documentary that aired this evening about the Morgan family in England."

Abe nodded and indicated for him to continue.

"It seemed to be going well at first, but ... " he sighed and closed his eyes.

"But ... ?" Abe had a feeling where this was headed but he wanted his father to unbottle his thoughts and feelings on his own.

"As the evening progressed and I shared more about my history and about ... my condition with her, she," he paused and sighed, "became more and more distant." He suddenly sat back down next to Abe, his brow furrowed, his eyes troubled. "Abe, she almost seemed afraid of me, as if I were some sort of monster or lunatic." He sighed and washed his hand down over his face.

"The look I saw on her face didn't look like fear," Abe said firmly. "Looked more like ... she was disappointed. And thoughtful," he added.

"Disappointment. Fear. Repulsion. Yes, all of those and more." His words came quicker, his voice pitched higher. He let out a hollow laugh. "That's even if she believed me!" He placed his hand across the top of his head and squeezed his curly mop then harshly released it with a loud, gruff of frustration.

"Jo's a level-headed, intelligent woman, Dad, which is why - " he was cut off by Henry.

"Which is why she'll decide that she doesn't **believe me** , that I am **insane** and she won't want to have anything more to do with me." He struggled to calm himself, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. "At least tomorrow's not a work day for us. I'm not ready to see that awful look of rejection in her eyes again."

"Look, Pops, has it occurred to you that she just needs time to think it all out? If you told her everything, then I'm sure she's suddenly got a lot to grapple with. But I'm confident that she'll handle it all well and come down on your side. Jo's tough. She's smart, strong, and she's a good woman."

"She's also going to have a pretty sizable hangover in the morning based on the inordinant amount of liquor she consumed tonight, trying to wash my words from her mind," he speculated.

"Despair always makes you wax eloquent." Abe loudly groaned out as he stood up. "You take her the hangover tonic bright and early tomorrow morning, then." He now stood and put his hands on his lower back and stretched forwards then upright, groaning even more. "And don't look at me like that. This is what happens to the body when you get old. The normal way." He wagged a finger at Henry. "Gotta stretch, that's all." He finished stretching and looked down at his father still seated on the sofa. "Doesn't mean I'm buyin' the farm yet."

"Abe," Henry grimaced, "You know I don't like that kind of talk from you," he rasped. He then sighed and lowered his eyes. "Besides, I can't take the tonic to her. She probably wouldn't even answer her door for me or her phone, for that matter."

"Hmmm," Abe thought for a moment, taking in Henry's words. "You might be right. We'll give her some time." He patted his father's shoulder. "Don't worry, Pops, she'll come around. I have faith in her." He and Henry shared a goodnight hug and retired to their respective bedrooms.

vvvv

The next morning, **not** so bright and **not** so early ...

Jo stepped out of her 20-minute shower. The new showerhead she'd self-installed needed a little adjusting, she felt. Maybe it was the hardness of the water. At any rate, the water hit her face and skin like hundreds of large, dull needles, reddening her skin. It made for a shower that was not totally unbearable but still not soothing enough to have really helped either her state of mind or her hangover. Right now she needed to be soothed; she craved it. After last night's TV date with Henry, during which he'd unravelled some of the mystery surrounding him and his life, she felt that a lobotomy might better suit her. That way, she half-jokingly told herself, she wouldn't have to deal with his fantastical claim of being immortal, of having walked this earth since 1779! Oh, the thought made her head pound even more painfully.

Once dressed in black leggings and her husband's old Stanford University sweatshirt, she towel dried her hair and secured it in a ponytail. _Get some food into your gut, Martinez. In a couple of hours, you'll be fine_. Every sound seemed amplified, worsening the pain in her head and the sick feeling in her stomach. Someone with a hammer was banging on the outside of her door, she just knew it. The sound reverberated painfully through her eardrums, making her neck and eyes throb. She gingerly braced herself against the wall with her hands as she made her way down the hall toward the front door, trying hard to avoid sudden or swift movements. Through clenched teeth, she half-cursed the person knocking on the other side of the door and half-cursed herself for having drank too much the night before. She finally reached the door and peered through the peephole and saw a familiar face.

"Hey, kid, how ya doin'?" Abe greeted her with a big smile after she opened the door. "Thought you might be needing my famous wake-up tonic after last night," he said, raising a large, stainless steel mug up for her to see. When she only offered a pained smile and shielded her eyes from the daylight, he stepped closer, still holding the mug and reminded her, "I know the stuff tastes awful but if you recall, it did wake you up after the first time you tried it and it did help you to recover quicker. So, how 'bout it? One sip, then I'll leave."

"You came all the way over here just so I could take one sip of that green sludge?" she cynically queried. He wasn't faltering in his quest, she could see; neither was his infectious smile. Her attitude softened a bit and she relented. "Okay," she said, reaching out and taking the mug from him, "one sip." After a quick swig of the concoction of questionable ingredients, she frowned in disgust and coughed, thrusting it back into his hands. "Ugh! Even worse than the first time! Aggghhh!"

"Well ... guess I'll be leaving now," Abe said, but he didn't budge.

He seemed hesitant to her, as if debating with himself, his smile forced; and when he continued to linger, she frowned and asked, "You wanna come inside for a minute?" Before he could reply, she hit him with the clincher. "And talk to me about Henry ... right?" He curled his lips in, still smiling and rolled his eyes up. He finally nodded, frowning a bit.

The detective in her sized him up as if he were a potential witness in an active case. "Yeah. Okay," she said, stepping aside and opening the door wider. "C'mon in. But keep that green icky goo away from me."

Abe chuckled softly and stepped inside, feeling more the fly who'd flown into the spider's lair. Jo had a strange look on her face; like a hunter stalking its prey. He tried humor to cut the tension in the air. "Jo, uh, got a seat for an old guy with sciatica?" It didn't work. She mechanically motioned towards the couch and he sat down. He shifted his weight uncomfortably atop the cushions and then set the cup of 'green icky goo' down on the coffee table. Jo paced back and forth in front of him, alternating between staring ahead as if deep in thought, then shooting a glance short of a glare at him. He hadn't felt this nervous since fifth grade when the principal found out that he had left graffiti on the side of one of the new portables. Boy, he'd been in trouble then and he felt as though he were in trouble now. But why? He hadn't done anything except ... help his father lie to her. A little. Oy, vey.

Suddenly, Jo stopped and looked at him. Her eyes grew wider and her face grew paler. She hunched forward, clamping her hand over her mouth and made it as far as the kitchen waste bin where the meager contents of her stomach heaved out of her mouth. Abe had surprised himself when he'd jumped up off of the couch and ran up behind her, holding her long ponytail out of the way of her orificial discharge. He quickly snatched a few paper towels from their holder and wet them. After helping her clean herself up, he guided her over to the couch and gently sat her down.

"I'll take care of this," he murmured softly and disappeared with the waste bin, returning after several moments with it cleaned out.

Jo lay back on the couch with her eyes closed, breathing deeply to allay the nausea that temporarily ruled her insides. She heard running water, so Abe was washing his hands. The next thing she knew, he was beside her tapping her shoulder.

"Here, drink this." When she groaned and turned her head away, he assured her it was only water. "No goo. Drink," he gently commanded.

After taking a few sips, she handed the glass back to him and opened her eyes. "Thank you, Abe." She scrutinized him again, this time less warily. "You've done this before."

"Wha- what?" he chuckled nervously. "Helped a friend who had a little too much merriment the night before?"

"No. Helped a _drunk_ after another binge," she stated more firmly. She slowly drew herself to a more upright sitting position but kept her eyes on the elderly gentleman for his reaction. When she saw him cringe and his semblance of a smile crumble from his face, she suddenly felt sorry for her harsh characterization of his past experiences. She placed her hand on his and squeezed it. "I'm sorry, Abe, I shouldn't have said that," her tone apologetic. "You came all the way over here to help me and I wind up taking my frustrations out on you." She closed her eyes, rubbed her hand over her forehead and sighed. "It's not you that I'm upset with, it's ... " She dropped her hand and opened her eyes, staring straight ahead at the dark and silent TV.

Abe knew exactly who she was upset with but he just smiled, took her hand in his and patted it. "No harm, no foul, kid." He leaned over and kissed her on the side of her forehead. "You just take it easy and feel better." He slowly stood up and made an O with his mouth at the sound of his cracking bones. "Ahhh, the price of old age," he chortled.

"For some of us ... right?" When he didn't immediately respond, she wearily asked, "Abe, do you know some of the crazy things that Henry told me last night while we were watching that - dumb TV documentary about the Morgan family?" Her voice grew loudest with her last words.

Abe's throat was dry. He licked his lips and swallowed. "What, uh, kind of things?"

"That he doesn't get old! That he was born over 200 years ago! That the Henry Morgan in tonight's premiere episode of 'The Morgan Chronicles' is not just based on him but it IS him!" Tirade ended, she settled back into the couch's cushions and placed her hand over her closed eyes.

"Take it easy, Jo," Abe warned her, "or you'll ... stir things up inside ya again."

Dropping her hand from her eyes and opening them, her voice was once again weary as she asked, "You're not surprised or worried? You don't think that all that sounds absolutely insane?"

Abe had to laugh a little at that last question. "You know, actually, it does. It does sound insane. Why aren't I surprised? Or worried?" He scratched his forehead and with a half-smile, half-grimace, asked, "Did he tell you anything about ... me?"

"Oh, that was a real kick in the head," she replied with a cynical smile. "You (she emphasized by pointing at Abe) are supposed to be his so-ho-hon." The last word was broken up by her mirthless laughter. The serious look on Abe's face stayed her laughter. Her face became awash with sadness as she closed her eyes and pleaded, "Don't ... pleassssse don't try to tell me ... any of that was true." But Abe was interjecting with his own pleas.

"Jo ... just listen ... try to ... Jo ... " He was bending over her, speaking in as gentle a tone that he could. He suddenly righted himself and replied more loudly and clearly, "It's true! I _am_ his son." She shook her head in protest but he continued. "Everything that Henry - my _father_ told you is true. Now, you're probably gonna get sick and want to throw up again or curse me or throw me out of your house, I don't know. But if you turn on that light bulb in that pretty little detective brain of yours, you'll figure it out for yourself that my Pops didn't lie to you. _I'm_ not lying to you!" He paused for a moment to collect himself but soon forged on again more calmly.

"I know it's a lot to take in, Jo, but you two are good together and good _for_ each other. I know it and you know it. And Henry knows it. That's why he's at home right now, nursing a broken heart over possibly losing you for good." He planted one hand on his hip and pointed a finger of his other hand at her. "And I don't believe for one second that the alcohol is totally responsible for how badly you feel right now."

Heart broken, she thought. Henry's heart broken? Well, he brought it on himself by breaking _her_ heart with that ridiculously unbelievable story of his! She sat upright with her hands clasped between her legs, forearms resting on her thighs. She couldn't bring herself to look up at Abe any longer. Since he'd chosen to further Henry's farce by lying to her about being his son, her heart was breaking over losing him as a friend, as well. Abe's voice seemed far off when he'd called her name.

"Thank you for coming over, Abe," she said stony-faced, staring straight ahead at the now hated TV. "I appreciate all your help, but I think you should leave now." She grasped the stainless steel cup with the green goo in it and handed it to him as she stood up.

Abe studied her longingly, wanting to say more in his father's defense, but decided against it. He took the cup and sighed despondently, realizing that three hearts were being broken here. Henry's, Jo's and his own. "You're welcome, Jo. I'll see myself out." With that, he walked to the front door and opened it, pausing as he turned to look at her where she sat staring blankly ahead. "Don't give up on him, Jo. Don't give up on us." He exited her home and closed the door.

The hungover detective finally let out a long sigh and relaxed back into the couch's cushions. She closed her eyes momentarily, then popped one open and walled it over at the liquor cabinet. "No," she groaned and closed the eye again. "No more booze." She slowly stood up and walked over to the TV and picked up the remote and some of Henry's words echoed in her brain.

 _'_ _ **1779**_ _... 79 ... 79 ... 79..._ _ **the year I was born**_ _... was born ... born ..._ _ **1814**_ _... 14 ... 14 ..._ _ **I was shot**_ _... was shot ... '_

"No!" she shouted, pressing her fingers against her temples and squeezing her eyes shut. "It's not true." Her words were crushed under her sobs. "No, no, no, it's (sob) not true." She dropped down onto the couch and laid there, crying herself to sleep like the night before.

vvvv

Abe entered the antiques shop with a heavy heart, two beers and two of the biggest, sloppiest corned beef on rye sandwiches Katz's had to offer. Jo may have drowned her perceived sorrows in booze the night before, but he and Dad were going the other route: stuff themselves silly _then_ fall into a fine bottle of wine. "Henry! Henry, you still here? I got us lunch from Katz's!" He climbed the stairs to the second-level living area and placed the food items on the kitchen counter. "Henry?" he called again. "Dad?"

"In here, Abraham," his father's voice drifted down the hallway.

Abe grabbed the items off of the counter and quickly walked over to Henry's open bedroom door and peeked in. But he wasn't there. "Where - ?"

"In here," Henry repeated, his voice drifting out of Abe's bedroom. Abe soon joined him and sat on the bed.

"What are you doing in here? Jo got you so turned around that you can't find your own room?"

Henry looked at him reproachfully and replied, "I was trying to operate your television set but I couldn't find the remote."

Surprised, Abe opened his nightstand drawer and pulled it out. "Here," he said, handing it to Henry. "You want to watch TV. This I gotta see."

"This is your remote? Looks like a ... "

"A gun, yeah," Abe proudly announced. "Cool, huh?" After watching his father's frown increase as he turned it over and over in his hand, he took it from him and said, "Here, lemme show you how it works." He aimed the gun-like remote at the satellite box and pulled the red "trigger" once, then at the TV and pulled the yellow "trigger" twice. Both electronics flickered to life and he handed it back to his father who chuckled with his eyes closed.

"A gun. Really? What will they think of next?"

"And you want to watch what? As if I didn't know," Abe deadpanned.

"Oh, I don't know why, Abe. Maybe I should watch the rest of this confounded saga about my family - you were right, by the way - maybe I should contact this Lord who bears my name ... " He sighed and laughed softly. "I suppose it is more like watching a train wreck and its deadly aftermath - of which I'm all too familiar - this TV show that serves as the catalyst for the wreck of my relationship with Jo." His brow was knitted as he inhaled deeply and eyed the bag that Abe held in his hands. "Katz's?" Abe nodded. "Corned beef?" Abe grinned and nodded. Henry held out his hand and took the proffered deli delight. "Well," he said ruefully before taking a bite, "at least I won't go down with the ship on an empty stomach."

The two men moaned in pleasure as they consumed their meal.

"I have no idea why I'm so ravenous," Henry said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "My heart's just been broken because the object of my affections thinks me insane and probably doesn't want anything further to do with me." He held the second half of his huge sandwich and frowned at it. "I should be drowning my sorrows in a bottle."

"First of all, it's called self medicating. Like when some people eat a whole pint of ice cream in one sitting. In our case, it's these humongous, delicious corned beef sandwiches we're washing down with beer. Secondly, you haven't eaten anything since those few handfuls of popcorn last night. Thirdly, we'll drown our sorrow in a bottle of wine later. Preferably a 1994 Masseto Bolgheri from Ornellaia." Abe finished reasoning and bit into the second half of his own sandwich.

Henry smiled at him for a few moments, his eyes glistening from unshed tears of sadness over possibly losing Jo's affections and pride over his affections for his son. "I stand corrected." He raised his bottle of beer to Abe, who raised his own and they clinked them together. "To two broken-hearted gents." Abe nodded his concurrence and they both took a long swig. "And a fine wine choice for later," he added.

"Show doesn't come on until 8:00 PM, you know," Abe gently reminded him.

Finally losing his appetite again, Henry sighed and wrapped the wax paper around the remainder of his sandwich. He raised his head and looked around the room, blinking the tears back. "I love her, Abe," he chokingly confided.

His words stopped Abe from taking another bite of his own sandwich and effectively obliterated his appetite, too. He wrapped the sandwich up and placed it and Henry's back into the bag. His eyes travelled back to his father and he quietly replied, "I know, Pops. We both do."

vvvv

A buzzing sound that grew louder and louder pierced into Jo's dream of two men in 1800's period dress preparing for a duel. They stood facing each other near a large, oak tree, their flintlock pistols pointed downward. As she raced towards them, she gathered up her long dress with its several petticoats. She ran barefooted and yelled at them but her words carried no sound. The only sound was a heavy heartbeat that grew louder and louder and beat faster and faster as she approached them. They ignored her and slowly raised their pistols at each other. It seemed as if she was running in slow motion, her loud yells swallowed up by silence. Only the beating heart was heard. As she finally neared them, she recognized one of the men; a dark-haired man whose usually soft eyes were squinted in anger at his adversary. She shouted his name and for him to stop. He turned his pale, unsmiling face to her, then back to his opponent, a smaller man with short brown hair, small eyes and an even paler face and lips that curled only into cruel smiles. She flung her arms up and shouted again, "NO-Oo-ooo-oooo!", the word drawn out deep and low. There was a flash from the smaller man's pistol, bright and blinding and she woke up with a start. "No!"

She blinked several times, catching her breath and slowly became aware of her surroundings. Home; her own couch; just a dream. And the loud buzzing that now caused her cell phone to slither across the coffee table with each buzz. Reaching over, she picked it up and swiped it to stop the alarm. An alarm she had set the day before so that she wouldn't miss tonight's premier episode of ... rats! Tossing the phone back down onto the coffee table, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and removed the ponytail holder from her hair. The long, chestnut locks fell down around her shoulders. She worked her fingers through her hair to fluff it up and allow it to finish drying. Was she really going to watch the show tonight? Was she going to be that cruel to herself again?

The memory of Abe telling her earlier that he was Henry's son soon emerged from the fog in her brain. Impossible. Or ... was it? And just as preposterous as Henry's claim the night before of being Abe's father. They were both crazy or being extensively cruel to her with their lies. And yet ... and yet ...


	3. Episode 1 -The Morgan Chronicles Ch 3

_"While you're thinking things through, don't forget what I told you about my reviving in the river."_

 _"Think about when you saw me fall off the rooftop of Grand Central ... along with Koehler."_

 _"Check the times of when you saw me on surveillance tape entering that subway car that crashed three years ago, killing everyone on board."_

 _"Check the time of my arrest for public nudity only minutes after the crash on the other side of town!"_

vvvv

"My God," she gulped, clamping a hand over her mouth, then over her chest. Her heart beat faster as the memory played out in her mind's eye in slow motion. As she'd lain shot and bleeding on the rooftop of Grand Central Station, she'd watched Henry being felled by a gunshot from Koehler. Then, in the next few moments, Henry had struggled to his feet, grabbed Koehler and forced him to the edge of the roof where they'd both disappeared over the edge.

"Only Koehler's body on the sidewalk next to a taxi was recovered, though." Jo talked out loud to herself, thinking things through. "A taxi with a bashed in roof."

It had always been assumed that Koehler had bounced off of the taxi's roof and onto the street. That it was _his_ body that had left the deep impressions on it. A trajectory scenario had never been done; neither had surrounding surveillance cameras been farmed for footage that may have captured the fall. Falls. As busy as the station had been that night with people both entering and exiting, no evidence at that time had been found to support a few eyewitness accounts of a second body at the scene. And Henry's explanation of his sudden disappearance from the rooftop and reappearance later, on the building's main concourse, had always raised suspicions from her, as well as from Mike, Lt. Reece and even from Lucas.

 _"Koehler's gun did discharge during our struggle," Henry had reported at the time, "but I assure you, I was not hit. I merely lost my footing and fell backwards. When it looked as though he would jump from the roof, I did my best to prevent him from doing so. Alas, I failed. Knowing from my medical knowledge that you should not have been moved, I returned to the main concourse to alert the others that you were in need of medical attention."_

That explanation had never set well with Jo. But no blood had been found on the rooftop other than her own. And only one of the two bullets from Koehler's gun had ever been recovered: the one that had struck her. Ballistics tests had confirmed his gun had been fired twice that night, so what had happened to the second bullet?

Exhausted from her self quizzing, she bit down on her lower lip while her eyes glanced back and forth. She then picked up her phone to call her official partner, Det. Mike Hanson, but decided against it. This perplexing situation with Henry had to be kept under wraps until she could get some concrete answers.

"Wanna keep your job, Martinez, you figure this mystery out on your own," she dryly reminded herself. Thanks to a recent department-wide upgrade to their computer system, she was able to login from her personal laptop from home and access whatever files she felt necessary in her quest to shed light on this mystery - the mystery of Henry Morgan.

After clicking the remote to turn on the TV to view that night's first episode of The Morgan Chronicles, she multi-tasked, dividing her attention between the TV images and the information uncovered during her computer search.

vvvv

The year displayed on the TV screen was 1752, in the Welsh rural hamlet of Tonyrefail. Inside a rundown roundstone dwelling, a young boy of about 12 years old was shielding himself with his arms from an angry man's repeated blows. This was the stark and unsettling cold opening of the first episode of "The Morgan Chronicles".

The man's arm raised again and again as he rained repeated blows down on the boy; punishment for not having brought in enough money that day from his harsh duties in the coal mines. But his arm was suddenly grasped by a larger, stronger man who shoved him all the way across the small, filthy room, causing him to collide with the wall and crumble to the floor. Because of the differences in their sizes, there was no challenge from the cruel, smaller man.

He merely righted himself but chose to remain cowered back and away from the boy's heroic rescuer. Also from the rescuer's angry promise to break every bone in his heathenous body if he ever even approached the boy again. The boy, Peter, was then swept up into his rescuer's, Robert Morgan's, arms. He carried the boy outside of his cruel stepfather's dismal dwelling, walked a few yards up the cobbled road to a similar dwelling and carried him inside. Structurally, all of the 100 or so simple dwellings were the same, but Robert's with its window boxes full of flowers was much cleaner and cheerier than Peter's former dwelling.

Abe quickly pressed the mute button and sat back, scratching the top of his head as the opening credits appeared along with images of the stars of that night's episode.

"Any of that ring a bell for you?" he asked.

Henry closed his eyes for a moment and then replied, "Yes, as a matter of fact." He smiled a bit and lowered his head. "My father was born Peter Alun Morgan. His stepfather insisted, however, that both he and his sister use his surname, Meredudd (pronounced Meredith), though. My father was a Morgan. But ... he'd always told me that after his mother's death, he and his sister were sent to live with an aunt and uncle. And, after a time, he added his uncle's name to his and went by Robert Morgan for the rest of his life."

"I'm confused," Abe said, looking to his father for answers. "Is this gonna mess up the family tree I so painstakingly put together recently?"

Henry replied with a small laugh. "It is rather ... complicated, I agree. But you might want to tweak your tree just a little bit." He turned slightly to face Abe as they now sat on the sofa in the living quarters, having dragged the TV from Abe's room along with the cable box.

"You see, my father's father died when he was very young. His mother married a man named Donal Meredudd and he raised him under that name until my father was 14." He looked disparagingly at the TV and said, "Not 12." He turned his attention back to Abe and continued his explanation.

"Anyway, after my father's mother died, that left Meredudd with two dependent children not of his blood and for whom he felt no compunction to support. My father and his sister, Jenett, went to live with their father's brother, Robert Morgan, and his wife, Angharrett."

"Oh, I see," Abe nodded. "Before I add this Meredudd to the tree, was he really cruel to your dad like that?"

Henry frowned and replied, "I never heard him say so." But there had been some whisperings over the years regarding an old beggar man who'd sometimes stood silently near the edge of their property but in clear view of the window in his father's study. He recalled that his father would quietly instruct a servant to take food or clothing to the old man and then he'd leave. _'Could that have been my father's stepfather? '_ Had the opening scene accurately portayed the brutality the man had exerted upon his father? Had his father, over the years, somehow forgiven the cruel man and/or simply taken pity on him in his old age and impoverished state? The volume, no longer muted, brought his attention back to the moment.

"After a ton of commercials," Abe sighed with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He glanced over at his father then back at the program, wondering if a certain, lovely police detective was also watching. Not wanting to risk upsetting his father, though, he chose to keep his thoughts to himself.

Then, as if having read his son's thoughts, Henry pondered aloud, "I wonder if Jo's watching this, too. There was so much more that I wanted to tell her," he continued, a painful frown on his face. And if any of the story unfolding on the small screen were true, he was also learning a thing or two about his own family.

Abe smiled and fought the urge to suggest that Henry call Jo. "Hard to say, whoa, what just happened?" He'd sat back with his legs crossed but he uncrossed them quickly and sat forward with raised eyebrows and a mirthful laugh. "The boy was 12, they cut to commercial and now he's grown up and getting married!" They both laughed at the unexpected acceleration of the characters' ages and louder when Abe retorted, "I'll bet the kid's parents were madder than wet hens at this funky bit of editing. He had a bigger part, believe me," he said, pointing a finger at Henry to emphasize his words. "They're probably ready to sue." Abe sat back, a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth, and re-crossed his legs.

"Well, at least the actors portraying my parents do resemble them," Henry reluctantly conceded. "And that is the same church they were married in," he told Abe. The church, in fact, was still an active and standing one to this day. It was as if he'd stepped back in time and was seeing his parents young, exchanging their wedding vows.

The mix of emotions he'd experienced as a result of this TV broadcast were many. At first indifference, not believing it really had anything to do with his family at all. Then foreboding at the thought that there might be more to this program than he'd at first thought. Apprehension because of what might be uncovered; sorrow, at the mention and remembrance of his father's death. Then hope when he'd thought it would provide the perfect introduction to Jo of himself and his secret of immortality. And, later, regret after it appeared that Jo had rejected his long story altogether.

Watching the last 20 minutes of the hour-long episode had been an eye opener for him. Both he and his son, Abe, had been rendered speechless by the scene in which his mother, Martha, had given birth to him in a carriage parked near the entrance of their London manor while a violent thunderstorm had raged around them. She'd gone into labor as they'd traveled from the city to their manor just on the outskirts and hadn't been able to be moved from the carriage once they'd arrived. He blinked several times at the realization that he may have indeed been born during a violent thunderstorm. Just as he had died in 1814 for the first time - during a violent thunderstorm. Could that ... _did_ that coincidence, provided it were true, have any bearing on his immortality?

Both men impatiently obeyed the off-screen announcer's tease for viewers to "stay tuned for scenes from our next installment".

Abe laughingly pointed out, "They certainly have a lot of sponsors paying for this," as the last few commercials paraded their offerings before them.

Nonetheless, they were a captured audience of two as the scenes from the next episode flitted across the screen. The last of which was his onscreen father angrily confronting his onscreen mother and accusing her of having had an affair with a local barrister, therefore, producing his illegitimate, younger sister, Sarah!

The two men's jaws dropped as they stared at each other in wide-eyed disbelief. They then both stared at the TV as the last of the closing credits rapidly scrolled up, ending with the proud BBC America logo. Abe still had the remote in his hand so he clicked the electronics off and dropped it on the sofa's cushion next to him.

"Wow," was all he managed to say. He turned slowly to view his father's reaction.

Henry slowly rose to his feet and stood, momentarily uncertain about his next move. He turned to Abe and smiled weakly. "Intriguing. My sister, Sarah, was my half-sister and most likely not a Morgan." But she was most likely a - ? Thankfully, he told himself, he was far too young at the time to have any memory of the adults that his parents had associated with at that time.

"Seriously, Dad? You're taking all of this as truth?" he queried. "I seem to recall that you called this rubbish and an 'amateurish attempt at dramatization of life in that era'."

Henry closed his eyes and nodded along with Abe's words. "But, Abe, consider this: Why have I been so upset lately?"

"Okay, 20 questions," Abe muttered. "Why?"

"Because Jo didn't, doesn't believe me after I've told her the truth about myself."

Abe frowned, rolling his eyes. "Yeah ... ?"

The now invigorated Immortal grinned and shook his head. "I, too, probably should be more open-minded because what if this TV program is also revealing truths about me and my family that I had never known? Things that were hidden from me and my siblings for one reason or another?" He squinted and licked his lower lip as he paced slowly back and forth in front of Abe, then suddenly turned to face him.

A skeptic Abe grunted and asked, "Do you really think that the writers are crankin' this out from what really happened in your family's past?"

"Of course, I can't be sure, but ... what if they are?" He retook his seat on the sofa next to Abe.

"Do you know what this means, then?" Abe asked, eyebrows raised. "It means I've got a little more research to do."

Henry smiled at him with his own eyebrows raised. "We both have more research to do." He eyed the landline phone wistfully and said, "I just wish that Jo - " The phone rang and cut off the end of his thought. Both men, startled but hopeful, looked at each other and stood up. Then Henry shot across the floor and answered it after the second ring.

"Hello." Breathless and grinning broadly, he nodded at Abe, who returned his grin but stepped back slowly to give his father some privacy.

"Yes, Jo, fine. How are you feeling?" Broad grin softening to a warm smile, he breathed deeply and closed his eyes as he listened to her voice at the other end. Her tone, calmer than during their last meeting, contained a hint of apology but with a bit of hesitation. Understandable, he acknowledged. Nonetheless, he happily allowed her voice to soothe and steer him to his own place of calm. A quick glance over his shoulder found Abe nowhere in sight. _'The rapscallion's no doubt eavesdropping in the hallway.'_ But his smile remained and broadened once more into a grin at her next words.

 _("Can you come over tomorrow? We ... have to talk and ... I promise not to throw you out again.")_

Suppressing the urge to leap for joy, he swallowed and took in a deep breath before replying. "I, I most assuredly can come over tomorrow. About what time should I arrive?" He squeezed his eyes shut and pursed his lips, hoping that he didn't sound overly desperate. Which he was, but that was beside the point. He breathed easier at her reply.

 _("Oh, anytime around noon or so is fine.")_

Her attempt at hiding her eagnerness, as well, did not go unnoticed by him and it helped to buoy his spirits. He was willing to give her all the time that she needed in order to absorb the information he'd shared with her about himself and was pleasantly surprised that she'd chosen to communicate with him again so soon. No matter. He was the beggar at her door and he wasn't going to be choicey.

"Tomorrow afternoon it is, then. I look forward to it." He licked the inside of his lower lip and added, "Thank you, Jo."

 _("See you tomorrow, Henry. Good night.")_

He bade her good night and hung up, hunching his shoulder as he inhaled deeply. There was movement behind him and he turned around to face his son once again, this time with a broad smile. A definite smile.

Eyebrows raised with a smile of his own, Abe approached him with one finger pointed at him. "I know that look. That's a definite smile. Not one of those phoney ones you plaster on to hide your true feelings from people. A definite smile." He drew closer to his father and they embraced. "I told you she'd come around, Pops."

They withdrew from their embrace and Henry squeezed his shoulder. "You were right, Abraham. As usual." He stepped around him to leave the room.

"Are you gonna go see her tonight?" Abe asked.

"No, Abraham. Tomorrow afternoon, she said." Until then, he knew that the hours were going to crawl by for him. But for the first time in more than 30 years, he wanted, needed, to be with a special woman. A woman he hoped loved him even half as much as he loved her.


	4. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 4

_("Can you come over tomorrow? We ... have to talk and ... I promise not to throw you out again.")_

 _He swallowed and took in a deep breath before replying. "I, I most assuredly can." He breathed easier at her reply._

 _("Anytime around noon is fine.")_

 _Her attempt at hiding her own eagerness did not go unnoticed by him. No matter._ _ **He**_ _was the beggar at_ _ **her**_ _door and he wasn't going to be choicy._

 _"Tomorrow, then. Thank you, Jo."_

 _("See you, Henry. Good night.")_

vvvv

Earlier that same evening ...

New York City is known worldwide as "The City that Never Sleeps". Its familiar hustle and bustle reaches a fever pitch by midday and gradually settles down to a quiet storm as the afternoon gives way to evening. At a little past 6:00 PM on a Saturday night, the city's streets and many restaurants, bars, movie houses and various other entertainment venues are filled with saints, sinners, and all types in between. One venue in particular, McSorley's, is more often than not, the watering hole of choice for many of those employed at the NYPD's 11th precinct and the OCME.

Two familiar faces, Det. Mike Hanson and Assistant ME, Lucas Wahl, shared their usual table and drinks and discussed the notable absence of two other familiar faces, Det. Jo Martinez and ME, Dr. Henry Morgan.

"They're probably gonna watch it together," Mike said, studying his bottle of beer. "Was a time when Jo would have watched something like that with my wife, Karen. Now ... " his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," Lucas replied, staring at his own bottle of beer and taking a swig. He looked at his wrist watch and then at Mike. "You have just enough time to make it home to watch it with your wife, Detective."

Mike grunted, rolled his eyes, and finished the rest of his beer. "If it wasn't for the fact that it's supposed to be based on the Doc's family back in the day, I wouldn't have agreed to watch it with her."

Lucas nodded slowly and said, "All in the name of love, Mike," and drained the last of his beer from the bottle.

Mike sighed as if dreading the great sacrifice he was about to make and bid Lucas farewell. He made his way to the bar and covered his tab. "Another round for my friend over there," he said, pulling out a few more bills and plunked them down on the bar.

"What friend?" the bartender asked, craning her neck to see around him. "The tall drink o' water that was sittin' with ya? Cuz he's gone." The diminutive brunette rang Mike up and pushed the extra bills back over to him.

Mike spun around and not finding Lucas at their table, roamed his eyes over the crowd in the bar. No Lucas. "Nite, Mikki," he told the bartender, and walked out to the street. Once outside he caught a quick glimpse of Lucas in the back of a cab speeding away from the bar. "So, 'A lame TV show not worth your time', eh, Lucas?" he scoffed, repeating Lucas' earlier words, then suddenly checked the time on his wrist watch.

"Geez, I'll just about make it," he realized, and quickly hailed a cab. Neither man had been willing to admit to the other that their curiosity had been wetted after having watched the previous evening's docu-drama that introduced viewers to "The Morgan Chronicles". They both felt that if their secretive ME was unwilling to share anything of substance with them about his life, voyeuring into a TV show about his family's past, whether fact-based or not, was a roundabout way to satisfy their curiosity.

vvvv

The next day, Sunday afternoon ... noon-ish ...

A cab deposited Henry Morgan in front of the Washington Heights home of Jo Martinez, collected the fare, and then sped away. Standing on the sidewalk, he inhaled deeply through his nose and out through his mouth to calm his nerves. His eyes trailed up from the two medium-sized Holly Berry bushes, to the gray stairs, and then rested on the red door. Normally, he would have walked there on such a nice day, but it had taken a bit more time that morning to put his "look" together, as his son had mockingly described.

This second chance that Jo was offering him felt somewhat like an audition - and he wanted to make sure that he got the "part". He really felt more like a lovestruck schoolboy, though. A slight movement of the curtains inside the house appeared to go unnoticed by him as he trotted up the stairs and knocked on the door.

Inside, Jo had peeped out of her window at the sound of a car pulling up, then its door opening and closing. After which, a brief exchange of faint voices, one most definitely British, had precipitated one big throb of her heart. At his knock, she moved quickly over to the door, closed her eyes, leaning her head back and taking in a deep breath before opening it. Here goes nothing, she thought, and opened the door.

vvvv

Henry sat in his usual spot on the left side of the couch with his arm resting on the high-rolled arm, extending his right arm across the back of it. Jo usually cuddled next to him and he'd bring his arm down to hug her closer. Instead, she sat more near the middle, perched nervously on the edge just like the last time he'd been there.

He lifted his right hand and rubbed the back of his neck and tried hard to ignore his hurt feelings over her silence and her choosing to maintain distance between them. Their greeting had been awkward, to say the least, allowing a cloud of uncertainty to hang over the room's usually warm atmosphere. _'Still isn't going well.'_ He was thankful for the tea she'd prepared for his visit, noting that anything else of substance would most likely not sit well on his stomach, anyway.

"That's a new look for you." Her statement reeled his attention back to her. She nodded toward his attire.

"Going biker on me. Reminds me of Marlon Brando in that movie where he and his biker buddies terrorized a small town." Flashing a smile that was a bit more genuine now, she busied herself with some items on the coffee table and it served to calm him a bit, prompting a smile of his own.

"Oh," he chuckled, a bit embarrassed. "Abe insisted that I should wear this today." Actually, they'd loudly disagreed over it but, in the end, Abe's choice of the 1950's bad boy look had won out over his usually more staid outfits.

 _"Now, don't go back over there scarin' the poor girl dressed like a stuffy professor," he warned him. "Go for relaxed," he advised. "Besides, most guys your age - "_

 _"My - age - ?"_

 _"Excuse me, your_ _ **perceived**_ _age," he corrected himself, bending slightly from the waist and spreading his hands, "don't wear penguin suits every day."_

 _"I'd - hardly - "_

 _"Look, Dad, just trust me. For once." He handed the clothing and boots to him and sighed in relief once his father accepted them._

 _"Alright, Abraham, have it your way," he huffed in defeat and shoved his body into the juvenile raiments, as he regarded them. "But don't be surprised if she laughs me away from her door!"_

It wasn't necessary, he inwardly decided, to tell her just yet that Abigail had gifted the jacket and engineer boots to him as a joke when Brando's 1953 movie, "The Wild One", had debuted.

Finally satisfied with the placement of the items on the coffee table, Jo sat back against the cushions and shifted her body to face him. Still distant but seemingly less nervous. He was thankful for that, at least.

"He says I need to 'butch up' and 'ditch the scarves', hence, this." He waved his hand down over himself with a slight grin. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips then back again. Breaking his gaze to bring his concentration back to the reason for this meeting, the items on the coffee table seemed to suddenly spring into his vision, causing his grin to falter a bit.

Jo noticed his gaze dropping from her eyes then to her lips and she swallowed, hoping that he hadn't noticed her own gaze drop to his enticing lips. No time for that, Martinez! Focus. When she noticed him gazing at her laptop and a writing pad full of notes, she composed herself and cleared her throat.

"As I said, we need to talk." The pad was in her hands now and she glanced down at her notes then back up at him. Her eyes locked with his and knowingly or not, she shifted into interrogator mode.

"You fell off the rooftop of Grand Central along with Koehler."

He knitted his brow, tilting his head, and asked, "Are you asking me or telling me?"

" _Telling_ you," she replied, eyes closing briefly as if willing herself to continue. "I did my homework on you, Henry, and a lot of weird things ... are starting to add up," she conceded.

He studied her a moment and then said, "Okay."

She moved a bit closer to him out of habit, then lowered her eyes to her notes and shook her head. "Couldn't make any of the trajectory scenarios work where Koehler hit the roof of the cab and bounced off." She looked up at him and added, "That impression on the roof of the cab was from your body."

He nodded once, keeping his eyes locked onto hers, and automatically removed his hand from behind his neck, resting it on the back of the couch behind her.

"Were you aware that a few people actually saw you fall and land on the cab? Saw Koehler fall and land on the sidewalk?"

He slowly inhaled and let it out, his fingers brushing her right shoulder. "There is always the possibility that my ... departures may not escape notice. Thankfully, their statements appear not to have been taken seriously since only Koehler's body was recovered." His answers were as quick, his manner as smooth as when she'd questioned him when he'd been a suspect in the subway crash.

"If you ... died and came back to life nude in the East River 3-1/2 miles away, how did you get back to Grand Central fully clothed?"

"Abe was a bit apprehensive about me being out to help catch a killer, something I haven't done in years." In reply to her raised eyebrows, he promised, "Story for another time. Anyway, he had parked near the East River where I usually reawaken and waited for me." He dipped his head and smiled. "Turns out he was right in his assumption that I'd need his assistance that night. Emergency towels and dry clothes are kept in the trunk of his car for just such occurrences."

Nodding with her mouth open, she looked him up and down and asked, "Why didn't anyone notice that you were wearing different clothing?"

He sighed and replied, "Because I wasn't." She frowned and he sighed again. "My wardrobe contains more than one of the same suit fashioned by my tailor since - "

" - since everything vanishes with your body when you die," she whispered, frowning more as her eyes slowly traveled back and forth.

"Before any of that, though, right after the subway crash you were arrested only minutes later, nearly five miles away. Nude."

"That was a bit unexpected, so ... "

"You couldn't alert Abe to scoop you up before the police did," she smirked, shifting her weight on the cushions so that she was even closer to him.

It seemed so natural now, for the lovers to nestle with each other; so much so, that they were unaware of the distance closing between them. Henry's arm lay comfortably around her shoulders, pulling her in closer to him, reasserting his position in her love life and she, willingly allowing him to do so.

"He's a, um, good son." Referring to the elderly gentleman as Henry's son still had a foreign ring to it. However, referring to him as an Immortal's son made perfect sense.

"Yes. Yes, he is," fatherly pride evident in both his voice and smile. "I know it's hard to believe, Jo. It's hard for even me to believe, at times. But that's the way it always happens for me whenever I meet an end."

"An end? You say it like it's a normal thing! Henry, you have quite a few arrest records for public nudity near the East River. That means you've died over and over and, and ... "

"Unfortunately, for the past 200 years or so, it has become a normal part of my life; the way that I die and rejuvenate unharmed."

"And all those old records I found on you on the Internet and in our files. They stretch back farther than your false birth year of 1979, in the OCME's online employee database."

He softly chuckled at the remembrance of the hacktivist, Liz Claiborne, who had plugged up some holes in his records, in appreciation for him having saved her life.

Concern for Jo grew in him as she suddenly gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. "You died. You actually ... died." She leaned her head down against his chest, then jerked her head up to meet his eyes, her own filled with tears.

"And last night you tried to tell me and I, I kicked you out!" She sobbed and tearfully confessed, "I even kicked Abe out later." Her tears flowed more freely as she sniffled and apologized profusely.

Henry hugged her tightly with both arms and shushed her, kissing her on the forehead and smoothing her hair down. "It's alright, darling, I understand." He kissed her forehead again and leaned back a bit as he lifted her chin up and gazed into her eyes, smiling.

"And don't worry about my son having had his feelings hurt, either. Believe, me, Jo, he's been kicked out of quite a few places over the years." He breathed easier as her trembling lips formed an uneasy smile and she wiped tears from her glistening cheeks. He felt himself getting lost in her beautiful, almond-shaped brown eyes.

Their faces were now only inches apart. He gently rubbed the last of her tears from her cheek with his thumb. Words were no longer necessary as their eyelids fluttered close and their lips finally met. Again. Finally, again. Oh. A hunger had built up inside them both that could only be satisfied by savoring the feel of each other, the _taste_ of each other.

His tongue gently but determinedly pried her soft, moist lips open and met hers in a red-hot collision, causing him to grunt and her to moan deeply at the delicious contact. Moaning and sighing, they realized that this was what they should have been doing all along instead of suffering through their self-imposed exile from each other. Their labored breathing increased as they clung to each, twisting their heads to the side, this way and that, in order to deepen the kiss, each determined to win the battle of overcoming their heartache.

An onlooker may have mistaken their feverish, jerky movements to emanate from palsy or even anger. But they languished in a warm feeling of belonging; of returning home, finally, after an eternity of having been lost. They had found each other again and this time they weren't letting go.


	5. Episode 2A -The Morgan Chronicles Ch 5

Henry was lost in ecstasy as he held Jo close to him and covered her with as many kisses as he could. It felt so freeing, so wonderful, to be able to physically express his desires for her again. His hands seemed to have a mind of their own, as did his wandering lips. With his eyes closed, he could only imagine her to be as deep into the well of longing as he was. Then, from the furthest recesses of his mind, he heard her whispering pleas; felt her hands pushing against his chest.

"Henry ... um ... Henry? ... honey ... honey ... wait ... wait ... " Her voice was whispery soft, breathless, but held a sense of urgency. She tugged herself away from his lingering kisses and cupped her hands around his face, then on his upper arms to still them. As much as she wanted this, she was forced to give into a persistent, nagging thought.

What could be wrong now, he thought? Had he made another mistake? Too passionate? Too rough? Too desperate? What?! His breaths came in rapid pants as he worked to slow them and his heart rate. He swallowed a few times and slowly opened his eyes. She returned his curious gaze with one of regret mixed with worry.

No, no, no, no, no, he silently groaned and swallowed, reluctantly withdrawing his embrace, and steeled himself for what was to come.

"Henry, I ... " She closed her eyes and shook her head, then opened her eyes again, looking at him with a bit more determination. She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled a bit when her fingers became caught in her tangles. Then, she quickly stood up and walked around the coffee table, turning to face him with her back to the TV.

Please don't say it, don't say it! he silently pleaded. There was so much he wanted to say to her to plead his case, but he clamped his mouth shut and waited for her to say what was on her mind.

"Things were getting kind of ... out of hand here." She laughed a little, waving her right hand up, then down. Her left hand rested on her hip while she attempted to run her fingers through her tangled mane again with no success.

"I think that we should ... " Her voice trailed off as she considered her words. "That is, we should ... slow things down ... for a while." Her chest rose and fell again and again as she struggled to calm her breathing.

Sorrow encompassed Henry's face as he squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. His head suddenly jerked back up as he eyed her with curiosity again, his sorrow abated.

"Jo, what do you mean 'slow things down'?" At least she hadn't said they should end things, banishing him to the dreaded "friend" zone, as Lucas like to say.

She pulled her clasped hands up and pressed the index fingers to the front of her mouth as she studied the floor, carefully choosing her words. Lowering her hands and clasping them in front of her, she continued.

"Apparently, I didn't really know you when we first began our relationship. Now that I know, heh, heh, certain ... things about you, some of the real truth, that is, I, um ... " She paused, biting her lower lip but still met his gaze. "I want us to take some time to, well, for me, to take all this in." She smiled a bit self-consciously and shrugged.

"I find out you're immortal and over 200 years old. You have a senior _citizen_ for a _son_!" She lifted her head up and looked around, flopping both arms up, then down. "I mean, I can't just ... go ... okay, that's interesting, let's go kissy face, yeah, yeah, like it's nothing."

Henry studied her for a moment as he took in her words. He sat forward and, frowning, asked, "You're not kicking me out again, are you, Jo? You said you wouldn't." Eyebrows and an index finger raised, he reminded her of the promise she'd made to him during their phone call the night before.

Jo grinned and rushed back over to sit next to him, then scooted a bit away from him. She grabbed both of his hands in hers and squeezed them. "No, Henry, I'm not kicking you out. Just saying that ... " she sighed, frustrated at what she felt was her inability to make herself clear.

"Of course, I still want you. I'm still very much in love with you, but just need time for all of this new, supernatural information to sink in." If it ever will, she ruefully admitted to herself.

Henry looked down at their hands and back up, locking his gaze with hers. He nodded again, lips pursed, and then extricated his right hand from her grasp and rubbed the back of his neck with it.

"That is totally understandable, Jo," he quietly said, lowering his hand to squeeze hers again.

"Glad you understand, Henry," she said. She grinned and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then pulled back with a pensive look on her face.

"Guess that's why you never wanted to get jiggy with me," she playfully concluded.

He frowned in confusion at her, then scoffed as he recalled Lucas using the term one day. "If you mean get intimate with you - "

A wide grin spread across her face as she lowered her eyes. "At first, I thought, well, he's just being Henry, being a true gentleman."

"I am that," he agreed with a quick nod.

"Then, as time went by, I thought maybe you were either impotent or gay and you were using me to be your beard."

His jaw dropped and he rolled his eyes into a soft chuckle. "Jo!" He chuckled some more and assured her that he was neither gay nor impotent. And, at the moment, he silently and regretfully admitted, it was becoming increasingly more difficult for him not to prove the latter to be true. He rubbed the back of his neck again and let out a deep sigh.

"I must admit that I felt rather guilty about withholding the truth about my condition from you. It didn't seem right or fair that you didn't have all the facts about me and my life." He sighed and smiled, embarrassed. "Made it difficult for me to take our relationship to another level."

"To include sex," she stated matter-of-factly. "You can say it, Henry, we're both adults. You, more than I," she pointed at him and grinned.

"Thank you for that graphic detail," he dryly replied, nodding. "Yes, to include ... sex," he uneasily agreed. They both laughed softly. He calmed his features and continued.

"But after I finally did divulge the truth to you, and you kicked me out, and you forgave me and invited me back over," he dipped his head at the expounding of each point, "I ... thought that ... maybe ... we could ... " He abruptly stopped nodding when he saw her wordless but negative reaction.

"No, Henry," she replied. "What if I had told you something like that about me? That, that I'm a witch and, and in hiding from the Evil Witch of the North? How would you feel about me then?"

He looked away from her, blinking and mulling over her words. "I see." He sighed and clasped his hands together in his lap, a frown settling upon his face. Then he side-eyed her with a sly grin.

"That would explain the way I feel about you. Like a spell has been cast over me." He shifted his position slightly to face her, smiling devilishly at her. "I can tell you now that there are some pretty naughty thoughts rearing themselves up in my mind about you ... about us." He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Jo sighed at his touch and closed her eyes briefly. She then stood up as if remembering her earlier admission of needing time to absorb the new information about him and crossed her arms over her chest. "You're welcome to take a cold shower," she offered in a teasing tone that matched his own.

vvvv

Six hours later ...

The couple re-entered Jo's house laughing and groaning over a failed dining experience at a new vegan restaurant highly recommended by Karen Hanson. In order to satisfy their still ravenous appetites, Henry had persuaded Jo to get pierogis from a deli that he and Abe frequently patronized. He'd smiled at her playful pout when he'd turned his nose up at the greasy, spicy burritos she loved so well.

"You have drawn your new boundaries concerning our relationship," he'd reminded her with a smug smile, "I reserve the right to draw mine, as well."

Dinner had come after a leisurely walk from her house to a nearby park. She'd had questions. Lots of them. And he'd answered them as best he could. He'd had stories to share and she'd listened in awe.

Since he'd opted out of a cold shower in order to curtail the sowing of his wild oats, they'd decided that a long walk in the fresh air would do him good. What he didn't suspect was that it had done her a lot of good, too.

"We're back just in time," Jo said, as she placed their food items on the coffee table. She picked up the remote and switched the TV on, still set to the BBC America Channel. A news broadcast was into its final 18 minutes and then the newest episode of "The Morgan Chronicles" would air.

Jo noticed that Henry was suddenly strangely quiet as he moved from the hallway into the livingroom. He stopped briefly to glance at the food on the coffee table, then at the TV. She watched him while he walked slowly into the kitchen, deep in thought, his hands shoved down into his jeans pockets.

"What's got you so quiet all of a sudden, Henry?" she asked while taking two wine glasses down from a cabinet and passing them to him. "Rethinking taking that cold shower?" she teased.

He chuckled softly and took the glasses from her. "No, totally unnecessary, I can assure you." He sighed as they walked back to the livingroom and placed the glasses and a 2013 bottle of a Riesling white wine on the coffee table next to their food.

"Just wondering if tonight's broadcast will have any real information for me about my youngest sister, Sarah, and who her father may have been."

They seated themselves on the couch as before and eagerly began enjoying their meal. Jo reiterated Abe's thoughts of the night before. Between bites, she asked, "How can you be sure that the events displayed in these episodes are really from your family's history? You know how they sometimes ignore the boring facts and spice things up with bogus ones just to sensationalize things, just to get the ratings."

"Abraham said something like that last night," he replied, thoughtfully. "He's going to conduct a new avenue of research because of just that. Who knows what he'll find?"

"Seems to me that you'd want to go directly to the source for some real answers." She wiped her mouth and adjusted the wrapping on her pierogi.

"Are you suggesting that I - ?" Her suggestion surprised him but when he thought about it, he wasn't averse to it. "I should sojourn back to England to do firsthand research." He said it more as a statement than a question. The cache of old documents recovered from the Rooks Nest cottage alone would be well worth the trip, he thought.

"I don't know that you need to do that," Jo replied, shamelessly licking her fingers.

"It's not a burrito, but ... a good substitute," she announced, pointing at the last half of her pierogi.

"Just write to His Whatever-ship in that beautiful hand script of yours. He's bound to be impressed and correspond with you." This time she sighed and wiped her mouth and hands more properly with her napkin. She placed what was left of her pierogi back down into its takeout container and turned slightly to Henry.

"Satisfied?" she asked with mock exasperation. "Least judgmental, eh?" she smirked.

"One just doesn't lick their fingers while consuming a meal, Jo," he said, tiredly shaking his head. "But I just might act on your suggestion: write to," he raised an eyebrow at her, "His Lordship." He chuckled when she rolled her eyes at his correction of the man's title.

"Oh. It's finally on," Jo said, grabbing the remote off of the coffee table and unmuting the TV. She loosely held onto the remote in her lap. "Here we go," she breathed out and glanced quickly at Henry then back at the TV.

A quick review of the previous episode's highlights was the lead-in for tonight's episode. Henry felt oddly anxious as he braced himself for any new revelations. Normally, he would have slung his arm across the back of the couch to keep Jo snuggled close to him. However, because of her insistence that they slow things down for now, and his own anxiety, his posture was rather rigid as he sat a bit forward, his hands gripping his knees.

He wondered why he was so anxious. Then it hit him. His mother's honor had been placed into question whether it was true or not. The majority of the viewing public, he feared, would have no reason to doubt that these were true events unfolding on their TV screens. He sighed at what he felt might be his own gullibility for taking this "Hollywood hogwash" seriously.

The scene they were now viewing showed his onscreen father angrily confronting his onscreen mother and accusing her of being pregnant with another man's child. She tearfully broke down and admitted that she had had an affair while he had been away for months on business again. The loneliness, she tearfully explained to him, had become too much for her to bear. She was a young woman, she'd yelled at him, left repeatedly for long periods to basically rear their three small children alone. What did he expect, she'd angrily asked him.

He answered her with his own anger as he grabbed her shoulders and shook her as he cursed her and flung her down onto the bed.

In the hallway outside their closed bedroom door, a maid and the groomsman cringed and listened to their raised voices. They eyed each other uncertainly and after a few minutes, the groomsman shooed the maid away with "Not a word of this to anyone". She worriedly nodded and obediently scurried away. As he followed her departure with his worried eyes, he gasped as he glimpsed the dark curly hair of the couple's young son as he anxiously peered out from behind his partially open bedroom door. The groomsman quickly advanced to the boy's door and, looking down at him, whispered to him to accompany the maid to the kitchen, hinting with a wink that cook may require his assistance in disposing of the last of the blueberry scones.

"Blueberry scones," Henry murmured to himself. Then louder, "I remember that." He bit his lower lip and glanced over at Jo, a full seat cushion away from him. She smiled sympathetically at him but said nothing.

"That's what they were arguing about?" he asked himself, his voice just above a whisper.

"Happens in the best of families, Henry," Jo said in an awkward attempt to soothe him. "But you can't be sure if that's what they were really arguing about. Hollywood," she reminded him.

"I'm sure they weren't arguing about the price of tea in China, Jo," he chuckled mirthlessly and sighed. He watched his onscreen persona disappear down the stairs with the maid.

"Her name was Judith." Jo frowned at him and he clarified, "The maid. Her name was Judith. Cook was ... Miranda," he managed to dredge up from his memories. "And the groomsman was McMasters." He sighed again and said, "Never knew his first name or perhaps it escapes me now."

The program went to commercial break and he and Jo visibly relaxed. They softly laughed at the realization of how tense they'd both been during the end of the last scene.

Henry shook his head and leaned back into the cushions. "I always thought my parents were devoted to each other, loved each other dearly." He shook his head again and said, "This is most disconcerting, to find out that the circumstances behind my sister's birth nearly tore them apart." He looked at Jo and added, "If these are true events." She nodded several times.

"Sure, who knows?" she told him as nonchalantly as she could.

Back from commercial, the timeline had advanced several months to show his onscreen father working in his study, trying to ignore the occasional wails of his wife as she gave birth to little Sarah. Finding himself unable to fully concentrate on the contract he was reading, he abruptly stood up from his chair and turned to watch the groundskeeper trim the many hedges on their expansive property. Still saddened and angered at his wife's infidelity, he tensed at the sound of the baby's cries as she entered the world. There was a knock at the door and he shouted over his shoulder at whoever it was, that he wished not to be disturbed. The person either ignored or hadn't heard him and knocked insistently once more. The elder Morgan picked up a large paper weight and flung it at the door, connecting loudly with it and leaving a deep gash. As it fell to the floor, he marched closer to the door and angrily bellowed his request to not be disturbed again. Silence and then footsteps hurriedly faded away.

The scene switched to the rectory of St. Etheldreda's Catholic Church in Holborn, England, where a young, dark-haired priest named Thomas Sullivan sat anxiously behind his desk. An altar boy knocked and announced himself. The priest wearily bid him enter and the boy rushed in and handed him a note, which he eagerly took but waited for the boy to leave before opening it. He slowly opened the note and his features darkened as he read its contents. Heaving a heavy sigh, he lowered the note down onto the desk but still held onto it. The camera slowly moved from his troubled expression, down to the note addressed simply to T.S., and signed by M.M. The note simply stated that they were now the parents of a baby girl but he would never be allowed to know her.

 _I bid you peace now and in the coming years. Our daughter shall never know of you, whether or not my husband accepts her or not. But she shall only know me as her mother and him as her father. I pray that our sin never falls upon her shoulders or disrupts her path in life._

 _May God have mercy on our souls for the terrible sin we have committed._

 _M.M._

 _In the year of our Lord, 1785_

"Father ... Sullivan?" Henry hoarsely whispered as he sat back, frowning as his eyes darted around the room, focusing on nothing. "Good Lord! Oh, my Lord, Father Sullivan!" he exclaimed.

"Wow, Henry," Jo said. "A priest." She had been raised Catholic herself and understood how sacred the vows of celibacy were even now. "Back then, they probably stoned people to death, right?" Then the detective in her kicked in. "Wait, you act like his name's familiar to you. Did you know someone like that?"

"Father Sullivan. Thomas Patrick Sullivan, was my cellmate in Warick Prison," he quietly confided. "He never once ... " his voice trailed off as he recalled that dark time. Then more confidently, he squared his shoulders and said, "Perhaps he never mentioned my parents or Sarah during that time because none of this is true." And just as quickly, doubt began to creep back into his thoughts as he recalled that his parents had indeed quarreled that evening and very loudly. He also recalled the tension between his parents that had seemed to last well past his seventh birthday.

"Well, I'll bet it makes the ratings jump," Jo scoffed and popped the last bit of her pierogi into her mouth, washing it down with the last of the wine in her glass.

Henry simply didn't know what to think of all this.


	6. Episode 2B - The Morgan Chronicles Ch 6

It troubled Henry greatly that his parents had experienced such a tumultuous upheaval in what he thought had been their loving marriage.

May have experienced, he reminded himself, may have.

He closed his eyes and pressed his palm against his lowered forehead. The fingers of his right hand gripped his knee. He looked over when he felt a warm softness on top of his hand. Jo was softly rubbing his in an effort to comfort him. His sweet Jo.

"You're almost behaving like you did the first night we watched this broadcast," she quietly observed. She tilted her head to the side and asked, "Anything you want to tell me?"

He smiled and sat back, considering her words. "Remember that I told you of a cellmate I'd had in Southwark Prison? A defrocked Catholic priest?"

She nodded, her eyes roaming back and forth. "The same one who helped you ... escape," she said as her shoulders quickly tensed and relaxed. This was one of his more unpleasant stories he'd reluctantly shared with her. He hadn't supplied the name of his cellmate and she hadn't pressed him for it, preferring instead to focus on the fact that he had escaped his dark, dank cell.

"His name was Thomas Patrick Sullivan," he replied, dipping his head toward the TV. "Hard to know what he may have looked like as a young man since he and I met when he was much, much older, and I was, quite frankly, more consumed with my own situation than his. But he did, at one time, have a darker mane."

Jo's eyes widened as she blinked, her mouth agape, looking away from him, then at the TV.

"Shame on you, Father Sullivan," she tauntingly condemned the absent cleric.

In the next scene the camera focused on the quickened pace of a woman's feet, clad in black shoes with black stockings as they propelled her down the now familiar, long hallway that led to Robert Morgan's study. The woman, a maid, was dressed in a long-sleeved, ankle-length black dress with a full skirt and several dark buttons on the bodice from the waist up to the scoop-necked-like collar. A small, white bonnet covered most of her dark hair, pinned up into a bun underneath it. A long, white apron-like top dress completed her outfit, worn by all of the other maids in the employ of the Morgan family.

As her quick, determined steps brought her closer to the study door, the camera pulled up and back in order to bring her into full view. She abruptly stopped in front of the door and breathed in and out several times before rapping her knuckles against it.

"Yes?" Robert's tired, distracted voice muffled from within.

The maid leaned closer to the door and announced herself. He bade her to enter, which she did.

"Well, what is it, Judith?" he asked, slightly irritated while still concentrating on the papers he held in front of him. When she failed to immediately respond, he lowered the papers and cast a scowl up at her.

"Well, what is it, girl?" he demanded. "I'm a busy man, I haven't got all day."

The young woman inhaled deeply, gathering her courage. She nervously clasped her hands down in front of her and concentrated on the tree branches seen through the large window over his head.

"Nurse Hampton has sent me to inform you that your presence is required in the nursery, Sir."

He scratched behind his left ear, frowning. "The nursery? Where's my wife, your Mistress? Tell her." He waved her away with his hand and returned to reading over his papers.

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but she insisted that I bring you. Sir." Her nervous gaze was still focused on the trees outside the window.

"Why, may I ask, does she think that I would be interested in women's work? This is a job for my wife to handle. I don't bother with nursemaids!" he growled exasperatedly. Or with this baby, he darkly reminded himself. The sound of little Sarah's desperate wails drifted down the hallway and into the study. "What in blue blazes - ?"

The maid suddenly turned and marched out of the study, Robert close on her heels. He followed her down the hallway and into the nursery, directly across the hall from the bedroom of his young son, Henry. Once inside the nursery, he found himself alone with the wailing infant and no nurse in sight.

He stopped in the middle of the room, a few feet away from the baby's cradle. He put his hands on his hips and demanded to know what was going on. The baby reacted negatively to his angry voice and cried louder. He frowned and cringed as he slowly stepped closer to her. He now stood directly over her, staring down at her.

"Where is your mother? Why isn't Nurse Hampton here for you?" he whispered. Slowly and gently, he lifted little Sarah out of her cradle and cuddled her awkwardly at first, then with a more experienced grip, sat down in the rocking chair next to her cradle. His troubled eyes roamed over the baby and studied her face.

"Just like your mother," he whispered again. "Lucky you." He slowly began to rock in the chair and he suddenly noticed that the baby had grown gradually more quiet. He took in the sweet smell of her baby's breath as her cries diminished to whimpers and then soft sighings.

"You should have been mine, little one," he chokingly confessed to her. "If I had not spent so much time away ... left your mother ... " His breath shuddered in and out as he blinked back his tears and smiled weakly down at her. "Please forgive me, my selfishness. I've been too stubborn to lift myself out of my own wallow to admit my mistakes. God help me, but I can't hate you no matter how hard I've tried."

Robert eased himself back up to a standing position, intent upon placing her back into her cradle. He realized that he was no longer alone in the room with little Sarah. Looking up toward the doorway, his eyes met Martha's and their gazes locked. Lower lip trembling under a nervous smile, he said, "Look at her. Asleep, finally. I suppose she just ... wanted to be held by her father."

At his words, Martha ran to him, sobbing and embracing him, the baby in between them. They kissed and held each other. The camera moved away from them toward a lone figure in the hallway, standing with her back against the wall, just outside the door. It was Nurse Hampton and she smiled, her eyes glistening.

"Everything is as it should be now, Sir Robert. I knew you were ... a good man," she said softly.

The credits rolled up virtually too quickly to be read by a normal human. Jo lowered the volume instead of muting it. She didn't want to miss the announcement of when the next episode would air. Holding the remote loosely in her lap, she looked up at Henry, who appeared to be lost in deep thought, a soft smile playing at his lips. A memory was playing out in his head, she realized. A nice one. She could only guess which one and about whom.

"Wow. That was ... quite a moving scene," she said, rubbing his arm.

He smiled at her, then looked away, squinting. "Reminded me of when Abraham was placed in my arms for the first time." He interlaced his hands and brought them up and pressed them against his mouth.

"There are truly no words which can describe how it feels to hold a child in your arms that is not of your loins but ... instinctively know that you belong together." He lowered his hands and smiled at her. "In that moment, that special instance, in your heart and your soul, you become a father."

Jo smiled happily through teary eyes as she watched and listened to him.

"Raise the volume, please," he asked and pointed to the TV. She quickly did so and they caught the tail end of the announcement that the next episode would air next Sunday evening at 9:00. They both frowned, disappointed at the long wait ahead of them for the next episodic update and Jo switched the TV off. She tossed the remote onto the coffee table and stood up to stretch her legs.

"Coffee?" she asked him. He nodded and as she went into the kitchen to prepare their brews, he stood and stretched his own legs. He followed her into the kitchen and frowned when he saw her place two cups of cold coffee into the microwave.

"Not a word, Henry," she playfully warned him. He mockingly scowled at her and sat down in one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. He rolled his eyes as two minutes later, she took the cups from the microwave and sat one in front of him. She ignored his raised eyebrow and smirk as she sat down with her own cup and plopped two sugar cubes into it.

"C'mon, drink up, Henry. Don't be such a food snob," she teased, grinning.

Her voice brought him out of his pensive state. "I was just thinking how ... yes ... it was just about that time, shortly after my seventh birthday, that my parents seemed to have mended the rift in their relationship." He grinned and bit the inside of his lower lip.

"The nurse," he began, "well, I suppose her name was Hampton. Frankly, I don't recall her name, and we had several as we all grew up. But she would have been taking quite a risk if things really happened as they did in that episode. That level of insubordination and overstepping her bounds would have garnered her a severe reprimand, even being let go with no letter of recommendation. It would have been very difficult for her to have obtained subsequent employment as a nursemaid."

"Well, apparently, it all worked out," Jo said, sipping her coffee.

He was reminded of the unappealing brew in front of him. "Both you and my son are determined to 'cure' me of my dislike of the microwave, aren't you?" Microwave popcorn wasn't so bad, but he just still didn't like the idea of consuming anything cooked or warmed up in the infernal contraption.

"You liked the popcorn," Jo said, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

He playfully rolled his eyes. "No comment."

Jo scoffed and drained the last of the coffee from her cup. She then removed Henry's cup and poured the coffee down the drain in the sink. "I'll fix you a cup of tea, good sir," she said with a teasing voice.

"Thank you, kind lady," he teased back.

While the water in the tea kettle boiled, she asked him if he was as disappointed as she was that they would have to wait an entire week before the next episode aired.

He sighed before replying, "I'll be on pins and needles." A whole week. Blast!


	7. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 7

The next morning, Abe prepared a delicious breakfast of Eggs Benedict for his father and himself. He'd found the recipe among Abigail's favorites in a box rescued from their flooded cellar after a pipe had burst a couple of years ago. He watched in silent amusement as his father, in an almost dream-like state, poised his fork over the food on his plate but had yet to lift any of it up to his mouth.

Abe laid his fork down and propped his chin up on the palm of his right hand, elbow resting on the table. Smiling, he studied his father for a few moments, then asked, "What are we so happy about? As if I didn't know," he quickly added.

Henry was suddenly reminded of his son's presence. His smile broadened into a wide grin and he lowered his head to hide his blush. Clearing his throat and attempting to pull his features back into a serious expression, he finally began consuming his meal.

"Ummm," he moaned after his first forkful of the eggs. "Delicious, Abraham. And, to answer your question, I," he emphasized, "am very happy that Jo has forgiven me - "

" - for lying to her for so long after I'd advised you not to," Abe finished for him, self-satisfaction evident in his tone. "You're welcome, by the way." He shifted his weight in his chair and smugly waited for his father's reaction.

Henry lowered his head, leveling a censorious look at him.

"You gotta admit it, it's true," Abe told him, sticking to his guns.

"She has accepted me inspite of my condition and we have resumed exploring the romantic side of our relationship," he said as nonchalantly as he could with a wave of his hand.

Abe sat back in his chair and lowered his arm. "So," he drew out, "did you two reach a ... consummatory agreement?"

Henry coughed, nearly choking on his food. He sputtered, then reached over and grabbed the carafe of orange juice and took several gulps from it. Abe watched him with a lowered head and hidden smile. How he enjoyed yanking his dad's chain. If it would help to shake the 18th century immortal gentleman up enough to get him on a faster track with a certain lovely, brown-eyed brunette detective, Abe would risk any and all repercussions.

A few more small coughs escaped Henry's throat and he sadly shook his head at his son and resumed his meal.

"I refuse to allow you and your dirty little mind and filthy innuendos to ruin my day, Abraham," he said, jabbing his index finger at him. He cleaned his plate of the eggs and bacon but left most of the English muffin and sauteed potatoes with taragon. Wiping his mouth with his napkin and dropping it next to his plate, he then leaned back to fish his pocket watch out of his waist coat pocket. He checked the time and sighed, snapping it shut. Sighed as he wondered how on earth he and Abigail had raised such a potty mouth son.

"Is Jo picking you up?" Abe asked, hopeful.

"She is," he replied as he placed his watch back into his pocket, an edge of lingering disapproval still in his voice.

"Well ... better get downstairs, then. You've kept the poor girl waiting long enough, don't you think?" Abe playfully jabbed again. The stern look his father shot him caused him to lower his eyes and flatten out his smile. It surprised him how _that_ look still caused his stomach to flip flop after all these decades.

"I must be off to work now, Abraham," Henry said as he donned his top coat and his scarf, a Royal Blue color. It worked well with his dark grey suit perfectly tailored to fit his slim, muscular frame. His large, brown eyes and meticulously maintained dark scruff below them, helped bring out the chestnut highlights glinting here and there throughout his dark curls.

My Dad, the chick magnet, Abe smirked to himself.

Outer apparel finally situated to his liking, the immortal father turned to him and said that they would discuss his perturbable behavior later on that evening. As he walked toward the stairs and descended them, Abe's eyes widened under a raised brow.

Perturbable, he repeated to himself, rubbing his chin. Better break out the Funk & Wagnall's before then.

"What? No good-bye hug?" Abe called down the stairs after his quickly departing father. He chortled when he heard a grumpy huff emanate from the lower floor.

vvvv

"A revenge killing, Detectives." Henry pronounced the COD as he slid the corpse of 57-year-old Wilmont Beals II, a stabbing victim, into its assigned, refrigerated compartment and closed and locked the small door. He turned to Jo and Mike and shoved his gloved hands down into his lab coat pockets.

"Simple," Jo replied. She tapped Mike's shoulder lightly with the back of her hand and arched an eyebrow at him. "You like simple," she pointedly reminded him.

"Yeah," Mike replied defensively. "What's wrong with that?" he asked, frowning. "He and his crew ran a Ponzi scheme and bilked a lot of people out of a lot of money."

Beals had been an executive with BFD Financial, a firm being investigated by the SEC for securities fraud. He had been attacked by a vengeful grandson of one of their victims almost as soon as he'd exited a cab, presumably to enter the building where he worked on South Street in Lower Manhatten.

"Can't believe that after all the Bernie Madoff mess that people are still fallin' for these schemes." Mike grumbled, shaking his head.

"Can't believe that people are still _selling_ these schemes," Jo added. "At any rate, it makes our job a little easier because we have several witnesses and a confession from the perp."

"Yeah," Hanson joined in. "He made the guy into a human shishkabob with some kind of filed down, mini version of a fencing sword."

"That's it?" Lucas asked, his eyes darting from one to the other of his three colleagues. "No ... smoking gun hidden other reason for a COD?"

"No, Lucas," Henry replied with just the hint of a smile. "Sorry."

Lucas made a quick notation on the report attached to his clipboard, then hugged it to his chest. The four of them now stood in the hallway outside the roomful of freezer drawers. Lucas eyed his boss expectantly. Henry inwardly shrank from his gaze and frowned when he noticed the same expression on Mike's face. His frown softened a bit when he noticed Jo's amused expression as she stood in between the two men, all three of them facing him.

He sighed and said, "I suppose that the two of you would like for me to answer some of your questions about the recent TV show, The Morgan Chronicles?" Lucas and Mike looked at each other, then back at Henry as they both nodded in the affirmative; not too anxiously because this type of show wasn't exactly, in their opinions, a "guy" show.

"You do understand that these broadcasts are merely dramatizations of events that may or may _not_ have occurred in my family's past, right?" They both shrugged and nodded again.

"Is that a yes or a no, Doc?" Mike asked, seeking clarification. He'd practically promised his wife, Karen, that Jo would drag Henry along to their little dinner party that evening. Henry hunched his shoulders and lolled his head around, taking in a deep breath.

"It's a ... yes," he reluctantly replied. His eyes darted to Jo, who opened her mouth but didn't get a chance to speak.

"Great," Mike said, ignoring his lack of enthusiasm. "You can all come over around 7:00." Looking at Jo, he continued, "Karen would love to have you over and she has questions of her own. Remember, you and she are huge fans of that kinda stuff and she kinda misses you guys bouncing ideas off of each other."

Jo smiled warmly at the mention of his wife and her comrade-in-arms when it came to anything Jane Austen-y. Mike assured them all that the boys would not be a problem because they'd be at a sleepover at the home of a schoolmate.

"No Monster Mash tonight, just civilized adult company and conversation," he reiterated.

They all chuckled as they left the vicinity of the refrigerated corpses. Henry secretly regretted his decision to join them but he felt it would be unfair and ungentlemanly to not accompany Jo. After all, any questions they may have, required responses from him, not from her.

"My sincerest apologies, Mike, for not having accepted your gracious invitation more enthusiastically. Of course, I'm looking forward to spending an evening with you and your lovely wife." He then turned and walked into the morgue, headed for the safety and solitude (he hoped) of his office. Sensing that Jo was at his elbow, he looked over his right shoulder at her and smiled.

"Checking up on me, Detective?" he asked, turning around to face her, hands clasped in front of him.

"You might say that," she chuckled. Her features morphed into concern and she asked, "You gonna be okay with this?"

He squinted and took in a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. "Yes. As long as you're there to hold my hand," he added, his smile returning.

vvvv

"Great dinner, as usual, honey," Mike complimented his wife with a hug and a quick kiss.

"Oh, you're just saying that because we have company," Karen playfully chided him. She then struggled to contain a mischevious smile, waiting for his reaction as she stood behind him where he was still seated at the dining room table.

Their guests could tell this was an old dance between the loving couple and laughed heartily when he replied, "Yeah. She's really a lousy cook." He leaned forward and winked while twirling a finger around at their empty plates. "Uber restaurant delivery," he whispered. He got up from the table and turned to give his wife another quick kiss. He waved the group that now included Joanna Reece as a last minute attendee, into the living room. They settled in on the sofa and various chairs while their hosts disappeared into the kitchen to prepare and bring out coffee. The conversation and questions that had begun during dinner in the dining room, spilled over into the cozy living room.

"So, how much do you guys think any of what we've already seen is true or not?" Lucas asked.

"Well, some scenes do confirm my oral family history," Henry guardedly replied. He somehow felt a certain obligation to provide answers to their questions while keeping them as generic as possible.

"Other events require a bit more research to confirm their validity," he added. He felt like a fraud. In the three years he had worked with them, he knew that his vague replies and half-truths had irked them no end. And now, here he was doing more of it. But it was to allay any suspicions they may already have or any that had or will grow from the mini-series about him and his true private life.

"Okay, okay, I get that," Joanna agreed. "But true or not, that was really kinda nice that Henry's father, er, _that_ Henry's father," he emphasized for clarification, "accepted little Sarah as his own in the end." The rest of them nodded and smiled as Jo drifted off into a memory of Henry having provided another layer to that part of the story.

"Hey! You're doing that thing," Lucas said, pointing to Jo.

"Huh? What?" she asked.

"Yeah, that thing that Henry does when he gets 'lost in his imaginings'," he explained, grinning.

"Better watch out, Jo," Mike playfully warned her as he and Karen brought in the coffee service and placed it on the coffee table. "You keep hangin' around the Doc, you're gonna pick up some more of his quirky habits."

Both she and Henry smiled good-naturedly while the others tittered. Karen set about pouring the coffee into the cups and Mike passed them around to each of their guests. The duo then sat down and took possession of their own cups, stirring in cream and sugar, then settling back to enjoy the brew.

She had been recalling how he had told her of his father's pride on Sarah's wedding day, tears glistening in his eyes as he'd given her away. But other memories had also crept in for him; darker ones of how his father's sister, Angharrett, had always seemed to maintain a cold distance between Sarah and herself. Over the years, as they all had grown to adulthood, Aunt Angharrett had taken great pleasure in doting on the three older Morgan children. Her coldness toward Sarah, however, had remained a bone of contention with both of his parents and later with his brother William, his sister, Elizabeth, and himself. He'd told her that they'd actually grown to dislike her as she'd aged into a witch of a woman, eventually alienating even her own son and grandchildren. She'd place good money on Henry having the same thoughts right now.

"Where do you go, anyway, when you look like that?" Joanna asked Henry.

Jo distantly heard her boss' question but was recalling another portion of Henry's back story. He had confided with her how he secretly hoped that the show's creative minds would gloss over Aunt Angharrett's despicable behavior in the coming episodes or, better yet, leave her out altogether.

 _"I'm not looking forward to reliving that time even through the actions and dialogue of costumed actors," he'd said._

Her attention once again back to present company, she suddenly realized how much she longed to whisk both of them away. Somewhere else, anywhere, that was not here.

"None of my business," Joanna quietly stated when Henry appeared hesitant to answer. "Forget I asked." She raised her cup to her lips and took a couple of sips.

Henry shook his head and smiled, placing his cup down on the coffee table. "It's ... um ... " He chuckled again and caught himself before saying 'complicated'.

"Forget it. I shouldn't have asked. But you two do make a cute couple." She smiled, displaying a set of even, white teeth with a small gap between the eyeteeth.

"I'll bet that the next episode has the Morgan children all grown up like in the first episode where their dad was 12 and then after a commercial break, was a grown man getting married." Lucas grinned at his companions and added, "I'm looking forward to seeing that Henry grown up."

"Yeah," Karen joined in, "who did he marry?" They all looked at Henry, who blinked a couple of times and swallowed, completely caught off guard by her question.

"He, ah, it was a woman named Nora Perth," he replied. Karen nodded and put up a hand, remembering it from the documentary that had preceded the premier episode.

"Her family had owned the cottage in Rooks Nest and much of the surrounding land." He felt his voice crack a little, his tongue bitter at the utterance of the woman's name and he tried to hide it by pretending to clear his throat by sipping more of his coffee.

That woman. Nora. Jo had mixed feelings about her. On the one hand, Jo understood that Henry's claim had been too hard to believe. She, herself, had reacted to it in anger and disbelief but reason had won out. The evidence she'd uncovered was irrefutable and validated his farfetched claim of immortality and an incredibly long life. The facts simply could not be ignored.

On the other hand, she inwardly fumed at what Nora had done to Henry back then and for not having had more faith in him, more of an open mind that would have allowed her to at least have given him the benefit of the doubt. The strange scar over his heart that should have oblitered it, should have given her some pause for thought before having acted so rashly by having had him committed. Henry had also confided that Nora's family had supported her in her decision to have him committed to Bedlam. Even though it was something that had happened two centuries ago, she felt a bit of anger toward the woman. The whole business had hurt Henry so, had scarred him more deeply than the physical scar on his chest had.

"Hey, you guys, we're getting a bit ahead of the story," she pointed out. Was this how Henry felt whenever someone's curiosity edged too close to his truth? A bit nauseated and wanting so much to run away?

"We just want to make some notes and compare them to what might or might not come up in the next few broadcasts, that's all," Mike responded, shrugging. The others gave their silent concurrence. "Glad you were able to drag the Doc over here tonight, Jo. Er, for Karen." His wife gave him a soft punch to his arm.

"Don't blame it on me, Mr. Macho Man," she playfully rebuked him. "You're just as into this show as I am."

"You know, _it is_ just a TV show," Henry reminded them.

"Like Gilligan's Island," Jo joked in an effort to stem their growing interest in everything Henry. But she could hardly blame them. If she didn't know what she already knew about him and his immortal life, she would be chomping at the bit to get some answers, too, if she could.

"Gilligan's - ," Lucas scoffed. "No comparison, whatsoever. I have yet to crack the code on The Big Guy." He looked around the group and continued, "We've gotta get some answers from somewhere." He and the others chuckled while both Henry and Jo pursed their lips then forced them into broader smiles.

Their seemingly synchronized reactions did not go unnoticed by Jo. _'Wow, Mike's right. I am picking up his little quirks!'_

"All of this publicity and sudden focus on my family's history has rather embarrassed me. I'm a ... private person," he haltingly explained.

Mike and Joanna recalled his remark about being a private person to Jo as he was being questioned as a prime suspect in the subway crash investigation a few years ago. It had been their first encounter with their future crime-solving colleague and together, thanks to Henry, they were able to uncover the true culprit, Hans Koehler, a former chemist with DOW, who'd poisoned the train conductor for having accidentally killed his wife a few months prior to that.

"Private person," Joanna smirked. "You got that right." The remark provoked mild laughter from the others. That is, except from Jo.

"If he were to respond to that remark, he would raise a finger and turn his head a bit with his eyebrows raised and say, 'You behave in a like manner, might I point out'." Lucas pulled off his imitation of Henry's mannerisms and accent almost to a tee, causing the others (even Jo) to chuckle again.

"That's because I'm supposed to maintain a professional distance between my subordinates and myself. I'm not even supposed to be here tonight but I'm too nosy not to be!" the Lieutenant laughingly explained.

"Point taken," Henry replied, dipping his head and taking their ribbing in stride.

"It'll be interesting to see how much that Henry resembles you, Big Guy, you know, as far as mannerisms and speech; what kind of person he was," Lucas proposed.

"Yes. Interesting," Henry replied. Interesting, indeed. He secretly prayed that Hollywood would pump up the character. Push any resemblance between the actor's portrayal and himself so far apart from each other that no one would be able to raise any pertinent questions. And that he wouldn't have to relive too much of his painful past through the electronic tube.

Jo detected the uneasiness in his voice despite his smile and calm demeanor. Though not being one for too much PDA, she gently placed her hand on his arm, giving it a slight squeeze. It was a simple gesture but it served to help him to relax his tensed muscles. She could sense that he was slowly extending far outside of his comfort zone in trying to hold up under their spotlight. Time to call it a night, she told herself.

"Um, I'm sorry to cut into everyone's fun but - " She was cut off by Karen, who sensed an opening for a departure.

"Oh, you're not leaving yet, are you?"

"Sorry," she replied, tapping a finger to her right temple. "But this headache has just gotten worse since this afternoon. I'll just use the bathroom before I leave." She hated the lie but hoped that they bought her B-movie performance.

"Sure," Mike responded, motioning in its direction. He watched her as she left the livingroom, then he cast an apologetic look in Henry's direction. "Hope she's allright." He raised a finger and wagged it at Henry. "You get her home and take care of her. Doctor stuff, not that other stuff. Understood?" Karen frowned and shoved his arm admonishing him with an "Oh, you!"

Henry lowered his head, blushing. "Understood," he replied, fighting against a smile.

vvvv

Abe's Antiques ...

Abe had grilled Henry when he'd arrived home by taxi without Jo, worried that they'd broken up again or that she was ill.

"So, how'd dinner go?" Abe asked. "They put your feet to the fire? And you owe me a hug from this morning!"

Henry grinned and enveloped his son in a tight hug. "Sorry, Abraham." The two men separated and walked single file out of the retail area of the shop and up the stairs to the living quarters. Once upstairs, Henry removed his scarf and outer coat.

"Your language and behavior this morning were pretty despicable, though," he reminded his son.

"Perturbable, you said. Now, despicable? I think I'm gonna cry," he playfully pouted.

"It's late, too late, to have that discussion now," Henry pointed out, sighing. "I just want to go to bed and get some sleep. Long day tomorrow with boring departmental monthly meetings."

"But just sit here for a few minutes." He managed to gently guide his father to an armchair near the fireplace and nudge him down into it. "How did everything go at the dinner, with their questions and all?"

"It went fine," Henry replied a bit too quickly. He then sighed and admitted that it was uncomfortable for both Jo and him. He was doing his best to avoid going into detail but Abe's questioning expression seemed to warrant further explanation.

Abe waited patiently but never took his eyes off of his dad. Finally, Henry heaved a sigh in and out and continued.

"I didn't like lying to them, Abe. Watching the episodes with Jo and imparting the truth to her has been ... cathartic." The slow side-to-side slide of his eyes told Abe to remain patient, that his dad was putting his thoughts together.

"I'm beginning to think more and more that they deserve the truth about me, as well."

"Hmmm ... but you're not ready to tell them. Right?"

"No," he softly replied, shaking his head and looking over the room but focusing on nothing. "They seem to all genuinely like me. They're all so ... so trusting and eager to know more about me. It pains me that I simply can't ... " His voice trailed off as he pressed his lips together.

"Yeah. I know," Abe replied. "Been quite a roller coaster ride for you after having revealed your condition to just Jo."

"I'll be glad when the rest of the episodes have finished airing and we can get back to our normal, day-to-day lives."

"Normal?" Abe scoffed with a little laugh. "Good luck with that!"

Henry closed his eyes and smiled, lolling his head around. "Abe," he gently chided his son. But he was right. The "normal" in his life was hardly the same as in anyone else's.

"But the beauty of it all is that we can ponder the possibilities of this present situation over a nice glass of wine." Abe smiled broadly at his father who did likewise.

Abe left to retrieve a bottle of the fermented juice from the wine rack in the cellar. Henry settled back into the armchair and eyed the landline phone with longing, almost willing it to ring and be Jo at the other end. The time it had taken her to drive him home from the dinner at the Hanson home had not been nearly enough time spent together. The mere thought of her brought a smile to his lips. The urge to phone her, to hear her voice, caused his fingers to twitch. Just as he began to reach for the phone, Abe rejoined him in the room with a bottle of his wine choice and two wine glasses.

"Here we are," Abe announced. "An '84 Rieti." Henry smiled as Abe poured measured portions into their glasses. Abe then sat down in the adjacent arm chair and raised his glass in a toast and Henry did likewise.

"To family, friends, and loved ones. May they be forever present in our hearts." Father and son reached over to each other, clinked their glasses, and each took a long sip. The phone rang and Henry quickly put down his glass and answered it.

"Jo. Hi." Henry listened for a few seconds, then replied, "Yes, yes, I know ..." He grinned as he listened to her soft voice that both soothed and excited him at the same time. His eyes closed and he took in every single utterance from her smiling lips. Whatever she was saying to him now was right, was good. His eyes opened, happy and sparkling so he didn't notice that Abe had slipped out of the room in order to give them some privacy. They continued the conversation, voices low, barely audible to anyone other than themselves.


	8. Episode 3A - The Morgan Chronicles Ch 8

_Henry felt like a fraud. In the three years he had worked with them, he knew that his vague replies and half-truths had irked them no end. And now, here he was doing more of it. But it was to allay any suspicions they may already have or any that had or will grow from the mini-series about him and his true private life._

vvvv

The following Sunday evening at 9:00, the second episode of the highly anticipated "The Morgan Chronicles" began to fill the wide TV screen in Lucas' small apartment. He groaned from his tiny bathroom as he heard the now familiar theme music and knew that scenes from the previous episode were quickly flashing by. He was missing it! Darn anchovies! Hurry up, Mother Nature, muh show's on!

He finally managed to rush out of the bathroom into the small living area and plopped down onto the futon, grabbing the remote. With his other hand, he repositioned the bowl of popcorn and six-pack of beer on the end table that was small enough to serve as an iffy coffee table. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that he hadn't missed the opening scene.

The year displayed on screen was 1798. Robert Morgan paused as he ascended the home's wide, curved staircase just before the portrait of a young man, his attention drawn to it. His somber mood was the result of the absence of his younger son, Henry, the subject of the portrait, who was now a part of the British Navy's fighting force against France and Spain; and against his, Robert's, wishes. Father and son had argued for several months over the younger man's intentions to join the Navy and help defend his country, even though the older man had fought for Britain roughly 20 years earlier near the end of the uprising in the colonies.

As Robert once again played the exchange of harsh words with his son over in his mind, regret and worry were etched into the lines and wrinkles on his face. The camera moved slowly from his worried eyes and closed in on the proud, bright, hopeful ones in the portrait. The portrait faded out as the live action took over. The young actor portraying a Henry Morgan barely out of his teens stood proudly in his uniform on the deck of a British frigate.

"I knew it," he whispered to himself. "That Henry is all grown up, just like I said he'd be." Lucas crammed a handful of popcorn into his mouth and munched it, washing it down with a swig of beer. "Off to war, air ya, Matey?" he comically asked the onscreen Henry in an old-time pirate's raspy growl.

vvvv

The Hanson household ...

Something was vaguely familiar about the British naval uniform the young actor wore. The dark blue jacket in a cutaway style. Large, gold buttons widely spaced near the edges of the deep cuffs and nine each down the front edges of both the jacket and the white vest underneath. Gold epaulets adorned each of the squared shoulders. The knee-high black boots and white pants finished off the uniform with a sheathed sword hanging from a decorative, braided ribbon threaded through the left, front belt loop.

"Seen that before somewhere." Mike searched his memory and recalled a film a few years ago about the commander and crew of a British navy ship. Just sailing around, doing what they do, is how he'd described it to a friend. But that wasn't it. He'd seen that uniform somewhere, where was it? Where? His wife, Karen hurriedly sat down next to him on the sofa.

"Kids okay?" he asked almost absent-mindedly. He was having a hard time dividing his attention between the action on the TV, his thoughts about the uniform and now to include his wife in any conversation.

"They're fine. Sleeping like rocks after their baths. Great idea of yours, by the way," she replied, snuggling in closer to him. "Did I miss much?"

"Mmmm, not much. That Henry's all grown up, though, like Lucas figured." He chuckled a bit before continuing. "His dad looked upset, but he looked pretty happy on some ship in his uniform."

"I'll bet he looked pretty snappy in it, too."

"Well, I don't know about all that. You women get all worked up over a guy in uniform."

"You looked pretty cool in your patrolman's uniform, as I recall. That's how you got me."

"Really? Well, it didn't hurt that I was a hunk 'o burnin' love, too, right?" They both laughed but not loudly enough to wake their sleeping sons.

"Still are," Karen told him, planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

Images of warships bombarding each other with cannonball fire and differently uniformed men battling each other with various weapons and bare fists, on the sea and on land, emerged and faded into each other as the Napoleonic Wars progressed from the late 1700's into the early 1800's. The uniform that young Henry wore on the screen changed during the progression of images as he apparently rose in rank from Seaman to Captain. Karen noticed Mike's knitted brow and deep concentration. She knew him well. Knew that look. She'd seen it a thousand times over the years, especially during his Detective years. He was puzzled. Pondering over a potential clue.

"What is it, hon?"

"Uh ... it's just uh ... that uniform. The Doc has one just like it."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure. Remember the night he killed Clarke Walker in the basement of the Antiques Shop? We cleared the building room by room and I remember seein' it hangin' in his bedroom closet." 'Along with a bunch of NYPD sweat pants and hoodies. Why would he save those?'

"Maybe a costume he wore to a party one time?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it. Doc just ain't a party animal like that, ya know?"

"Well, it's ... just an interesting coincidence or ... or a family heirloom that he inherited. Can you imagine? The same uniform his ancestor wore over 200 years ago."

"Yeah, you're probably right." He looked at her and nodded. "Just an heirloom."

"Not just any heirloom. It has to be worth quite a lot of money by now. He should take it to that show that tells people how much their heirlooms are worth."

"Karen, he's got an antiques shop," he reminded her. "I'm sure he already knows the value of it."

But satisfied with the conclusion that the old uniform in Henry's closet was a family heirloom, they turned their attention back to the show.

The storyline had now advanced ten years and that Henry, as their small group had dubbed him, was now a successful, practicing physician, very much in love with his new bride, a lovely auburn-haired beauty named Nora. But after nearly a year of marriage, there were no children on the horizon, though not for lack of trying.

The scene was the bedroom of the young Morgan couple. That Henry shifted around in bed, punching his pillow in an effort to make it more comfortable. It seemed to be a bit lumpier than usual. He raised himself up, supporting himself on his elbows, and moved his hand around inside the pillow case. He frowned and pulled an object out, sniffed it and made a face.

"Nora, what's the meaning of this?" He twisted himself around into a sitting position to face her. "Have you been to that Charlatan again?"

Nora sat up, her eyes downcast at first, then she looked up, avoiding Henry's disapproving stare.

"Madame Grace is an herbist, or, whatever she calls herself, but that pouch of roots and herbs in your hand has helped several other childless couples to conceive."

He scoffed, a mirthless laugh erupting from his belly. "Darling, she's a Charlatan," he firmly insisted. He examined the smelly pouch again and grimaced and shuddered. He rose from the bed, shirtless, and tossed the pouch into the dying fire in the hearth.

"Some even say she's a witch," he added, indignance evident in his voice. He turned to her and slowly paced towards the bed to face her.

"There are no such things as witches," she tiredly stated.

"But there are Charlatans, tricksters, who prey on desperate people willing to quickly part themselves from their money in exchange for useless toys and trinkets they believe will bring happiness to their lives." He sighed and sat down on the bed next to her and pulled her close to him.

"Nora, I understand your desire to have children, I want children, too. But you're being taken advantage of, Darling, pure and simple." The couple embraced and kissed, then embraced again.

"We could always adopt," he softly told her.

"I suppose you're right, Henry," she relented, sighing.

"I'm a man of science, Darling, a medical man. There's simply no room in our lives for the occult or anything supernatural," he firmly informed her.

vvvv

Across town at Abe's Antiques ...

Laughter rang out from Abe's bedroom as he watched the end of the scene where the young Morgan couple were discussing their problem of not having children yet and mulling over the option to adopt, which had prompted a chuckle and a smile from Abe. It was that Henry's last line, though, that had caused him to suddenly roll with laughter.

"Oh, you'd better get used to that occult and supernatural stuff, buddy!" The laughter was hard for him to control and he wiped his tearing eyes. He wondered what his father's and Jo's reactions were as they watched the show over at her house. He shook his head and finally reined in his laughter.

"Aw, man. That was a good one." His own remark provoked another round of loud laughter from him. "Dad, Dad, Dad," he lamented, shaking his head and calming down once again. "My poor father." He felt guilty for having laughed at the line. It wasn't ha-ha funny, though, just very bitterly ironic.

"Who are the writers for this show?" he wondered. "I gotta pay better attention to the credits ... like that's gonna help. Oh, well."

vvvv

Earlier that same evening at Jo's Washington Heights home ...

 _"My father and I did argue about me going off to join our country's fight against France and Spain."_

 _"You have a uniform like that hanging in your bedroom closet."_

 _"I wondered if you had seen it there. I'm sure that Mike did."_

 _"Is it the actual one you'd worn and fought in?"_

 _"Yes, it is. I've miraculously managed to hang onto it over the years."_

 _"And the, uh, ponytail? Cute, by the way."_

 _(Chuckling) "Yes, I wore a ponytail. Quite common, at the time, and I'd wager any Naval man worth his salt would totally reject your description of it as being 'cute'."_

 _"So, you and ... she ... tried unsuccessfully to have children?"_

 _"Yes. But she never did anything like that and there was no 'Madame Grace' or any such person she'd visited. Hmphf. Hollywood, as you say, exercising their creative license."_

 _vvvv_

"The actress portraying her is very attractive," Jo quietly admitted, wondering if Nora had also been as attractive. Just out of curiosity.

"She does bear a striking resemblance to her, too. Not sure about the actor portraying me, though. Doesn't seem tall enough. Eyes are a bit smaller than mine. Hair is not as ... "

"Henry," Jo laughingly interrupted him, "you're knocking the guy who's portraying you? Granted, he doesn't have your dazzling smile but he's nice-looking, got the accent and mannerisms down. And a nice physique." She smiled and side-eyed him, waiting for his reaction.

"He's ... a'igh." He and Jo laughed at his attempt at modern street slang. "Lucas taught me," he told her in between chuckles.

"Oh, no," she laughingly warned him. "You tell Lucas that I said to stop corrupting your ability to beautifully turn a phrase."

"As you wish," he replied, grinning.

Their laughter gradually subsided and they grew silent, somehow finding themselves face to face, looking deeply into each other's eyes. Jo gently ran her finger tips over his scruff and her thumb over his lips, causing a sudden intake of air on his part. Henry brought his left hand up to her face and caressed her cheek. He slid his other arm around her waist, drawing her closer to him. It was times like these, these alone times, being close to each other, wanting and needing each other, and finding solace in each other's arms, that made everything else bearable. That made their lives possible.

"True or not, thank God for whatever supernatural force that allowed you to live long enough for us to find each other, Henry Morgan," she breathlessly whispered.

"Yes," he agreed, his voice tremored between them, deep with emotion. "Thank God that time was not a barrier to us meeting and ... allowing me to fall madly in love with you, Jo Martinez."

It was a good 30 minutes after heavy necking when they became aware of the show's closing theme. They pulled away from each other and looked at the TV screen, dismayed that they'd missed the last half of the episode.

Jo quickly recovered. "Don't worry. I DVR'd it." Which meant he'd have to stay a little longer at her house in order to finish watching it. They both grinned and started in on Round 2 of their heavy necking. Jo was determined, however, to not break the rule she'd made of them not being intimate. Not yet.

"We're not - " she panted as he nuzzled the pulse point on her neck.

"Of course not," he murmured, eyes closed, and nuzzled her more.

"I mean it," she hoarsely whispered as she grasped a handful of curls on both sides of his head. She couldn't keep her eyes open, couldn't stop panting. He always managed to cause her to behave like a she mutt in heat! It was shameful, embarrassing. And exciting and delightful, all at the same time.

He'd heard her. The gentleman in him reacted and he blinked his eyes open, pulling himself away from her. They were both panting and had worked up a sweat. The desire was strong in both of them to go further, much, much further, but Henry could sense her hesitation at the same time. She meant it about this rule of hers. Besides, there was more to be disclosed to her about Adam aka Lewis Farber. The revelation of his own condition to her, however, was enough for her to deal with for now. Later. He'd tell her about the troublesome immortal, Adam, later.


	9. Episode 3B - The Morgan Chronicles Ch 9

_It was a good 30 minutes after heavy necking when they became aware of the show's closing theme. They pulled away from each other and looked at the TV screen, dismayed that they'd missed the last half of the episode._

 _Jo quickly recovered. "Don't worry. I DVR'd it."_

vvvv

Henry watched with fascination as Jo did her magic to recover the recorded episode and advance to the last 30 minutes or so that they'd missed. In this instance, he definitely loved technology and waited eagerly for her to restart the program.

"There we go," she said, biting her lower lip. "This is the last that we saw." She looked up at him and added, "I think." She grinned and blushed as she set the remote down on the coffee table.

"You're very adept at that," he told her, smiling. "I must learn how to handle those controls myself."

She sighed and sat back into the cushions. "That's not all you, we, have to learn how to handle."

"Yes. You're quite right." He paused in thought and told her, "We need a chaperone." His face clouded with confusion when she laughed. "Well, we can't seem to keep our hands off of each other, like two ... canines in heat! It's embarrassing, this lustful behaviour of mine." She laughed again but she could see that he was serious.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, waving her hand. "You're serious about this, about a chaperone?" He nodded, determinedly.

"Well, how about the modern-day equivalent of that?" she asked. "We'll have company over next time we watch the next episode. Okay?"

He thought for a moment, considering which of their colleagues. "You choose."

"Abe."

"Hmmm ... excellent choice. I'll ask him when I - as a matter of fact," he said, shaking a finger in the air, "I should call him now to let him know that I'll be home a little later than planned. May I ... ?" He pointed to her cell phone. She picked it up and gave it to him and smiled as he dialed his son. His elderly son. His lovable, elderly son. This was certainly one aspect of his unusual existence that she found pleasing, the two mens' father-son relationship. It warmed her heart to watch them interact with each other, to witness their caring and concern for each other.

He successfully ended the call himself and proudly handed her phone back to her. "Thank you. It's a date, he said. Now," he said, motioning toward the TV, "let's see what we've missed, shall we." She did just that and they both settled back, considerably further apart from each other than they had been earlier, determined to be on their best behavior.

The recorded action was now in play on the TV screen. Robert Morgan didn't look well. He was in the London office of their shipping lines with his business partner, Harrington Smithers, painfully aware of his physical distress.

"We have no choice, Robert," Smithers tiredly reminded him. "Farrow owns the majority stock in the company now, by buying out all of the smaller investors."

"You mean by bribing and threatening them!" Robert angrily stated.

"Threatening?" Smithers scoffed. "Some, perhaps." He sighed and placed his hand on Robert's shoulder as they stood in the middle of the office near Robert's desk.

"More likely appealed to the greed in most of them. Face it, old friend; ruling interest in the Morgan Shipping Lines has been pirated away from us and from our decent customers. He's already signed contracts to - "

"I know. Don't say it. Turns my stomach, tears at every decent fiber of my being." Robert closed his eyes and sighed, head bowed. "If only I'd not been so lacking in business acumen; not fallen behind in our commitments ... maybe I could have foreseen this, fought against it better."

"Against Farrow and his dirty little crowd? Not likely." Smithers walked over to the large bay window and surveyed the ships in the harbor. "Just think ... in the next few months our company - "

"His company," Robert hissed. "I wanted no part in the transporting of human cargo!"

Smithers eyed his troubled business partner and friend and nodded. "Well, for what it's worth, the books will soon be in the black." Smithers took no pleasure in that fact.

"And, God help us, so will our souls," Robert direly predicted.

Jo quickly picked up the remote and paused it at the beginning of the next scene. She held onto it and looked over at Henry. He appeared deep in thought or in his memories; right arm extended and fingers drumming on his knee, the other hand fisted and shoved up against his mouth. He let out a long sigh and lowered his fist, then looked over at Jo.

"Your father participated in the slave trade?" she cautiously asked.

"Yes. I found out by accident one day when I sought a few hours of respite in the Diogenes Club in London. My friend, John, introduced me to a friend of his named Nathaniel Hale." He scoffed at the memory. "This Nathaniel Hale knew all about my father's dealings in the slave trade and made it known in front of all my other friends who were gathered around." He closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers across his brow, then clamped his hand over his mouth.

"I tried to tell him that he was mistaken, but from everyone else's reactions, it was apparent that he was spot on with his vile information. The news took me completely by surprise and ... and I felt like an utter fool. A blind fool. How could I have been so naive so, so ... And he just sitting there with that smug look on his face."

"It, um, looks like your father may have had no choice, having been swindled or tricked out of his controlling interest," Jo feebly offered.

"He knew exactly what he was doing. He'd told me that 'business had turned' or some such nonsense as that. The father I knew, or, rather, _thought_ I knew, would have slept in a _cave_ before joining in with the buying and selling of human flesh!" Henry virtually spat the words out at the memory of his father's confessed moment of weakness.

"Did things happen that way, though? Possibly, I, I never took the time to find out all of the pertinent facts. Simply ... resolved to try to remove the stain from my family and its name."

vvvv

Joanna Reece's home, Lower Manhattan ...

"His ancestors participated in the slave trade," Joanna mumbled to herself.

"Not that surprising, given the times," her husband, Gregory, pointed out.

"Still disappointing to find that out, though," she sighed.

Gregory rubbed her back as she sat forward, elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her clasped hands.

"We don't know if any of this is true, Babe," he pointed out again. "If it bothers you that much, do your own research." Joanna turned her head to look at him, doubt written all over her face.

"I'll bet you find out that this was just put in to attract viewers, to ... spice things up, that's all," he shrugged.

Joanna chuckled softly and sat back, nestling in next to him. "It shouldn't matter now. That was wayyyyy back when. And Henry certainly had nothing to do with all of that."

"That's right. Bad doings long time ago. And from what you tell me about him, he's kinda weird with his naked night runs to the river, but basically a good person. No reason to treat him any differently than you do now, right?"

She smiled and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. I wonder - if all that is true - how Henry's reacting to all this? Would it bother him or not?"

"I'm sure it would; nobody wants to find out that their ancestors helped buy and sell people, ugh." He watched her as she suddenly grabbed the remote.

"What's up, Babe? You wanna watch it again?"

"No, I recorded this, remember? Think I saw something in that scene where Robert Morgan's business partner was looking out of their office window," she mumbled as she worked the equipment to bring up the specific part of that scene. "There. There it is."

"There's what?"

Joanna advanced the scene to the specific part where Smithers was looking out of the office window at the ships in the harbor. She paused it and pressed the button to enlarge the image of a ship. The name on the ship became easier to read.

"Empress of Africa," she barely whispered. "Well, waddaya know."

vvvv

Back at Jo's ...

The final scene was of that Henry boarding the Empress of Africa as the ship's doctor. After he was shown to his quarters, he placed his bag on the small table provided and looked around, then sat on the small bunk. In a flashback, he recalled how he'd confronted his father in anger after having found out from Nathaniel Hale, that the family business was now entrenched in the slave trade and had been for more than two years. His anquished appeals to his father for a meaningful explanation then, and feeling that he had not been provided one, continued to plague him. The flashback ended with his father near death and Henry seated uncomfortably near his feet on the chaise where he lay.

 _"There's something I need to give you before you go."_

 _"Whatever it is, father, I cannot accept it."_

 _"That's your choice. But know it was given to me by my father and to him by his father."_

 _His father then presented him with his cherished gold watch. The camera closed in on the watch now in Henry's hand that clearly displayed the Morgan family crest on it._

Flashback ended, Henry took the watch out of his waist coat pocket and held it in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the crest. The camera again closed in on the crest, then moved up to his face, pained with memories of his father's dying words and of their troubled relationship during the last few years of his life. He realized that he could continue to dwell on these memories or get about executing his plan. His plan to free the 300 or so slaves in the hold of the ship. He once again studied his pocket watch, then, with pursed lips, stared at his cabin door.

"This will be the last, father. The last of your ships to have those poor men below set free." He had a plan and he was determined to see it to the end. Even if he felt the captain was suspicious of him. His eyes fell on the watch in his hand once again and the camera closed in on the crest and the scene and episode ended.

Jo turned off the TV and she and Henry turned to look at each other with widened eyes at the same time.

"That, uh, crest on the outside of the pocket watch looks - "

"Exactly like mine, yes," Henry whispered, finishing her thought.

"Easy for the writers of the show to have found it during their research," Jo reasoned.

"Yes, of course. Except that the traditional Morgan family crest included an ornate letter 'M' as the centerpiece with two birds of prey on either side, an olive branch in their beaks. Father had commissioned a special crest with our family manor as the centerpiece with laurel wreaths carved onto the outside of the pocket watch once he'd struck it rich, so to speak. The crest on my pocket watch is unique; one of a kind."

"How on earth did they ever uncover it?"

"I guess they're topnotch researchers," Jo speculated.

As unique as his pocket watch was with its one-of-a-kind crest adorning it, he felt certain that it would be of no interest to anyone else but himself. Unbeknownst to him, he was wrong.

For Lucas, Mike, and even Lt. Reece had seen him consult his watch for the time on many occasions and had admired the delicate design of the crest. They were now wondering if Henry's watch was just another family heirloom. What a coincidence, if that were the case. _If_ that were the case.

vvvv

"Nice," Lucas commented as he admired the crest on the outside of Henry's pocket watch.

Henry noted the time, snapped it shut but failed to reply, placing it back into his waist coat pocket. He stared straight ahead instead of at Lucas, who hovered over him on his right.

"The, uh, crest ... nice," Lucas continued, in an effort to engage his boss in a conversation over the time piece. "Your family crest, right?" he awkwardly added, scratching the back of his head.

"Yes," Henry finally replied, still staring straight ahead at the elevator doors. They opened and he and Lucas exited and walked into the bullpen of the 11th Precinct toward the desks of their detective colleagues, Martinez and Hanson.

Mike cheerily greeted the two men as they approached. "Hey, Doc, that uniform hanging in your closet, was that the same one worn by your ancestor?"

"What?" Lucas exclaimed in surprise. "In his closet?" He stared wide-eyed at Henry.

Although mildly irritated at their sudden interest in his personal belongings, he knew it stemmed from them having watched last night's episode.

"The exact, same one," Henry said. "An heirloom passed down from generation to generation." He knew it was a lie. It had been the one he'd worn and fought in alongside his brave comrades. But he couldn't divulge much else to Mike or Lucas. It would lead to more questions and more of an explanation than he was ready to give.

"Guys, can we get back to business here?" Jo asked, trying to divert their attention away from Henry and his belongings. "Let's pay attention to what Henry and Lucas came up with on our vic. OK?"

Mike nodded, a bit embarrassed. "Sorry, Doc. Waddaya got?"

vvvv

Across the pond ...

In the living room of a posh, London flat, a handsome, dark-haired, young British actor, Aidan Greene, slowly paced back and forth with a script in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other. He alternately lowered the script, looking away from the words on the page, and voiced them in an effort to make them, his performance, believable. He took another sip of scotch and nearly choked when he turned the page and read the next scene. Aidan scrambled over to the phone, dropping the script and drink onto the coffee table. He fidgeted, greatly agitated as he dialed and listened to the rings at the other end.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon - Yes, this Aidan Greene, I need to speak to Quentin - No! Put me through to him now! - Thank you." He picked up the script again and re-read the next scene and grunted, tossing the script back down onto the coffee table.

"Spare me the pleasantries! What is this with my character dying so soon in the show? I've barely - No! You promised me that this character would endure to the end of the show." Aidan frowned and grew quiet. As he listened, he picked up the script again and flipped ahead a few pages, then a few more. As he read, his frown gradually lifted and his eyes widened under raised eyebrows.

"So this fellow may or may not have died when everyone first thought he did?" Aidan listened to his agent, Quentin Turner, a bit more while he sipped his Scotch again. "Hmmm, interesting." He chuckled and retorted, "Sounds like the booger is some kind of ghost." He nodded, grinning, and ended the call, satisfied that his paycheck would last a little longer on this gig. He raised his glass, smiling, and made a toast.

"To you, Henry Morgan, my perpetual character of questionable longevity."

Notes: _

Robert Morgan's deathbed scene dialogue is from Forever TV S01/E14 "Hitler on the Half Shell"


	10. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 10

The rest of the week seemed to crawl by for most everyone at the 11th Precinct and in the morgue, for the show had garnered quite a fan base from the employees outside of their small group. As the weekend finally approached, Henry, Jo and their closest colleagues breathed a sigh of relief that Sunday night's installment of The Morgan Chronicles would soon be aired.

There was one growing problem, though. A young reporter, Angela Mabry, had begun hanging around out front of the Antiques Shop. Abe had done his best to keep her out of the shop and out of his dad's hair - out of his own hair, as well - and prevent her from annoying their customers. Luckily, this Friday morning, she seemed to finally have taken the hint and was nowhere to be seen as Henry approached the door of the shop and peered left, then right, before heaving a huge sigh and opening the door to leave.

"Coast clear?" Abe asked.

"It would seem so," he replied, adjusting his scarf again.

"Sure you don't want me to call you a cab?"

Henry looked over his shoulder at his son and smilingly declined the offer again. He bid his son farewell, and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He stepped briskly to the curb and hailed a cab, which wisked him away to his duties at the morgue.

Abe had watched him from behind the main counter at the back of the shop and was relieved to see him board the cab and that the driver was not Adam. He shook his head and laughed softly, reminding himself that his father's immortal adversary was still in the hospital immobilized by his locked-in syndrome.

vvvv

"Good morning, Dr. Morgan." The annoyingly familiar female voice greeted Henry as he entered the morgue's break room, intent upon getting a cup of the tasteless but steamy hot brew from the coffee pot on the counter. He froze for a split second, then turned stiffly to his left to view the relentless reporter, who sat at one of the small, round tables with a smug look on her face.

"Miss Mabry," he politely but dryly replied. He then turned and grabbed the coffee pot, filling his overly large coffee mug, a gift from Jo last Christmas. "What brings you here today? And how, may I ask, did you even manage to get in here at all?"

"What brings me here, Doctor? You." Angela rose from her chair and stood behind him as he carefully sipped the hot brew from his cup.

"And, to answer your other question, this is a public building, unlike your shop, that is privately owned." She crossed her arms over her chest and jutted her chin out, smug expression still in place. "No one can bar me from entering this building." She sighed and uncrossed her arms, letting them dangle by her sides.

"Look, Dr. Morgan, all I want is to ask you a few questions regarding your possible connection to the Morgan family depicted in the TV show that's been airing on the BBC America Channel."

Henry slowly stepped around her and headed toward the door but stopped when she again pleaded for a little of his time. He hated being so rude and unpleasant to her. Other than being annoyingly persistent, she seemed like a good sort.

"Please, Dr. Morgan," Angela insisted. "Are you or are you not related to that family? It could make for a very entertaining human interest story."

He turned around to face her, tightlipped and brows knitted. "I apologize, Miss Mabry, but there is absolutely nothing that I can tell you about the family in that TV show." As he left her stunned and disappointed in the break room, he took little comfort in noting that he hadn't lied. The truth was that he couldn't tell her anything. Shouldn't, couldn't and wouldn't. Neither he nor Abe were ready to flee New York to hide in some remote part of the world until interest in them died down. That is, if it ever would, given the far reach of social media.

Lucas approached him in the hallway, on his way to the break room to add some hot coffee to his now tepid latte. Henry realized that he'd better warn him about the reporter in order to not have a repeat of what had happened a few years earlier when another pretty female reporter had wormed inaccurate information out of a smitten Lucas during the Gloria Carlyle case. Even though her death had ultimately been ruled a suicide, Lucas' unfortunate assumption that her COD was a homicide, had first been plastered all over a certain tabloid's front page.

"Lucas, do you recall the reporter I'd told you about? The one that had perched herself outside of our shop for the past week?"

"You mean the hot one?" Confused by Henry's eyeroll of annoyance, Lucas felt prompted to give a more detailed description.

"A killer bod. Blonde curls dangling around her big, blue eyes and dimpled cheeks?" He paused, grinning. "Awww, those cheeks. So round, so firm, - "

" - so fully packed?" Henry finished for him, raising an eyebrow at him. He quickly shifted his feet into a firmer stance to make his point.

"It's best that you not interact with her, Lucas." His assistant's look of dismay failed to deter him from his goal of keeping the two would-be lovebirds apart. Well, the lovebird part of their description fell solely in Lucas' court.

"Do you remember what happened the last time that you fell under the spell of a ... hot ... young, female reporter, bent on digging out whatever story she could for a sensational headline?"

The memory of his slip of the tongue to the determined reporter a couple of years ago in the Carlyle case slowly unearthed itself like an undead rising from the grave in one of his cheesy short films. He swallowed and nodded.

"Then, please avoid her and the break room altogether. The coffee around the corner in that diner can more adequately satisfy your caffeine needs." The desperate ME pushed his gangly assistant towards the elevators.

"Okay, but this isn't my break," Lucas informed him as he stepped inside the elevator car.

"It doesn't matter. Your first duty is to obey your superior, so, I am ordering you to take an early break for coffee from the diner around the corner." The elevator doors began to close and he quickly added, "And make it a long, leisurely one." He mirrored Lucas' wide grin and nodded as the doors closed. His grin suddenly faded and he exhaled sharply, turned and made a hasty retreat to the morgue. Jo was standing just inside the doorway of his office when he arrived.

"I was just about to leave," she said. "You're usually in before everyone else."

He gave her elbow a slight touch as he passed by her and sat behind his desk. "I had to make sure that our new favorite member of the Fourth Estate was not on my tail this morning."

"Angela," Jo hissed. "I'm working on dealing with her," she added, crossing her arms.

"Well, this morning she wasn't outside my door, but," he hesitated and sighed, "she was in the break room a few minutes ago."

Jo bit her lower lip and slowly inhaled, letting it out just as slowly. Henry knew that look, those mannerisms. He tilted his head as he watched her and waited for her to share a bit of wisdom with him.

"This may sound a little crazy and you don't have to agree to it, but ... " Her voice trailed off as she bit her lower lip again. "Maybe you should give her that interview."

"What?!" Henry jumped up from his chair as if his pants were on fire. "I'm sorry, Jo, but that is much more than just a little crazy!"

"Henry ... Henry ... calm down, just hear me out." She was now in front of him, holding him by the shoulders, then cupping his exasperated face in both of her hands. Her touch worked to soothe and calm him somewhat, and his breathing.

"Jo, I don't - "

"Henry. What I'm proposing is that you give her an interview, give her the human interest story she's seeking and she'll write up a nice little story and it'll get buried on page 10 at the bottom."

He frowned and pursed his lips, skeptical of Jo's suggestion. "Tell her about me ... ?"

"Tell her what you can tell her. Remember, in her mind, you are probably a descendant of that Henry Morgan. The original announcement for the show was near the bottom of Page 15 of the Times, so any story she gets out of you will probably land there, as well."

"You're forgetting one very important fact, Jo."

"Which is?"

"The infernal show is a HIT! An interview with me would most likely wind up on the Times' front page!" He shook his head, totally rejecting the idea of submitting to an interview with a journalist, any journalist.

"Absolutely out of the question." He gently tugged her hands away from his face and held both of them in his, pressing them against his chest. His eyes met her concerned gaze and he managed to smile slightly.

"I understand, Jo. Throw her a bone and she'll go away." He eased back down into his chair and looked up at her. "I've been through this before." He shuddered and his face clouded over at the 1865 memory.

His first wife, Nora, had tracked him down to the London hospital he'd been working in after his photo and a front page story of how he'd rescued a small boy from a burning building had circulated throughout London and the surrounding countryside.

"It didn't end well," he whispered hoarsely. Her eyes widened with horror as he related the details to her of how Nora, in her eagerness to share the miracle of his immortality with the world, had secreted a weapon into the hospital with the intent of shooting and killing him in front of many witnesses.

"When she raised the weapon and pointed it at me, I was prepared to be killed and later have to flee to another country, lay low, outlive, and move on. What neither she nor I were prepared for was a nurse I'd begun courting, Anna Peyton, to step in front of me and take the bullet meant for me."

"Oh, my God, Henry." Jo clamped a hand over her mouth as she pictured the sad events in her mind.

Even after more than 150 years, he still paled at the memory of holding Anna in his arms as she bled out from a bullet to her heart. A bullet meant for him. He could have recovered from that fatal wound as no one else could have. As Anna had not. Brave, sweet, unsuspecting Anna. It still haunted him of how needless her sacrifice had been.

"No, Jo. I can't agree to an interview with Ms. Mabry. Not with her or any other journalist. Who knows what the consequences would be?"

Jo leaned against the edge of his desk, hugging herself as she gazed through the window's half-closed blinds. She sighed and turned to look down at Henry where he still sat with his fist shoved up against his mouth, deep in thought.

"I am so sorry, Henry. What an absolutely awful thing for you to have gone through. Okay," she sighed, "no interviews. But she's determined to get a story out of this one way or the other."

"And she has the clout of the New York Times behind her," Henry dourly pointed out.

"The clout of the NYPD outranks the Times any day," Jo reminded him with a wide smile. "We'll figure something out ... together."

Notes: _

The character, Gloria Carlyle, and the female reporter who quoted Lucas incorrectly, both appeared in Forever TV S01/E04 "The Art of Murder".

The character, Anna Peyton, appeared in Forever TV S01/E17 "Social Engineering".


	11. Episode 4 - The Morgan Chronicles Ch 11

Sunday evening, 30 minutes to Episode 4 ...

"You're getting quite the hang of that," Jo teasingly observed as Henry worked her remote to bring the TV to life.

He set it down on the end table to his left and smiled. "Well, I've sort of been practicing with Abraham's. His remote is shaped like a gun." He playfully rolled his eyes over to her.

"A gun?" she asked, surprised. "Kids." She shook her head with a mock-frown and they both laughed. "How's his back?" A slight smile still graced her lips but her expression was one of pure concern.

"Well, if he follows his doctor's instructions - "

"Yours?" she interrupted.

"- and takes his prescribed pain medication," he nodded, "it should be fine in about a week." He shifted back against the cushions and sighed. "And I hope he's learned his lesson that he simply can't lift heavy objects like he once could."

"He did say that he didn't know the ottoman was that heavy," Jo offered in her friend's defense.

"He thinks he's still a kid!" Henry scoffed, shaking his head slightly.

"Compared to you, he is!" she chuckled.

He smiled and rolled his eyes but continued to hammer his point home. "Abraham is stubborn, rarely wants to take anyone else's advice, insists on doing things his way, and can be a general pain in the ... rear sometimes."

Jo raised her eyebrows and fought against a smile. "Like father, like son," she pointed out.

Henry's eyes slid from corner to corner, then up, then down. "I believe I've just been insulted."

Jo threw her head back and laughed, her eyes crinkling shut and her thick, brown mane falling back over her shoulders.

Henry frowned a bit, feigning hurt and added, "I'm certain I've just been insulted."

She leaned and reached over him to retrieve the remote. He took advantage of their sudden close proximity and placed his arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Sorry that our plans for a chaperone fell through," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. But there was no real remorse in his voice or in his laughing eyes. In fact, he was rather going to enjoy another evening alone with the lovely, doe-eyed detective.

"Oh, don't worry," she whispered back, her warm breath pleasantly whisping against his lips. "Abe's replacement should be arriving any minute." She gave him a quick peck on the lips and, grabbing the remote, reclaimed her perch on the couch half a cushion away from him.

"Replacement ... ?" He eyed her and, confused, leaned forward a bit.

"You see, a transformer blew and cut the power to Lucas' apartment building so - "

"Lucas?" he asked, slightly alarmed with disbelief.

"So ... I invited him over to watch the latest episode with us."

Henry sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, clasped hands shifting nervously against each other. His brow was knitted but his eyes had widened to owlish proportions. "Lucas?" he repeated. "Jo, how could you even think to - " Knocking at the door interrupted the beginnings of their semi-disagreement.

"That should be him," Jo said, pushing herself up off of the couch. Thankful for the interruption, she quickly walked over to open the door for a timid but grateful looking Lucas. "Come on in," she greeted him.

"Lucas," Henry murmured under his breath and put on his best false smile to welcome his assistant. "Nice to see you," he said much louder as he stood up to shake hands and exchange greetings. His eyes slid over to meet Jo's as she directed the young man to sit in an overstuffed armchair on her side of the couch.

"I really appreciate the invite," he gushed, settling into the chair. "Wouldn't want to miss any of this show and how cool is _this_ to be able to get your thoughts, Big Guy, on the action as it's goin' down."

"The action. Quite." Henry pressed his lips together and forced a smile again at Lucas' fanboy grin.

"Oh, uh, I kinda got hung up in traffic on the way over," Lucas said. "Could I use your ... bathroom ... please?"

"Oh, sure, sure," Jo motioned to the hallway. "First door on the right," she called after him. She then turned to Henry. "Best I could do at the last minute," she told him in a whispery tone. After a moment of studying his look of apprehension, she said, "Oh, come on, it'll be fun with him here. And he thinks the world of you," she said, pointing at him. "And you of him," she reminded him, bumping his shoulder with hers.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." He ducked his head, slightly embarrassed. "It's just that ... well, he doesn't know ... you know, about me." As he spoke he placed the outstretched fingers of his right hand over his chest where his scar would be. "And I don't want to slip up and say the wrong thing."

"You'll be fine." She patted his hand and squeezed it but released it when they heard Lucas walking up the hall and back into the living room.

"Hey, it's on," Lucas announced. He quickly retook his seat and they all settled back to watch the fourth installment of "The Morgan Chronicles".

vvvv

After a quick recap of the previous episode, the opening scene unfolded onto a ship at sea in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. The year displayed on the screen was 1814. Under the angry and darkened night sky, the camera angle tightened in on the hull to reveal the ship's name: Empress of Africa.

Lucas' mouth formed an O and then he chuckled. "Same name as the ship in the Rick Rasmussen murder case." He looked over at Henry and waited expectantly for his confirmation.

"It ... would appear so," Henry uneasily agreed. "The fruits of good research by the show's production staff."

Lucas nodded, mouth still agape, then his head snapped back to the screen. The trio watched Henry's onscreen persona steal down to the hold of the ship and attempt to pass a key to one of the enslaved men. He snatches it back when interrupted by the angry captain who suspects him of having stolen the key. He later threatens him.

"You may be the owner's son, but out here at sea, I'm judge and jury. One wrong move - "

"And what?" Henry defiantly challenges. They're interrupted by a crew member who informs the captain of a slave with a fever and Henry offers to examine him.

"They're probably gonna throw the slave overboard if he is sick," Lucas somberly predicted. "That's what they did back then," he sighed.

"He just has a fever," the doctor declares. "He'll be fine." He stands and faces the angry captain, hoping that his diagnosis will suffice to save the apparently frightened man with silver-colored eyes from a drowning death. The captain ignores the non-cholera diagnosis, denounces the man as being property and then orders his men to throw him overboard. The doctor desperately attempts to intercede, shouting that the man is not infected but his words fall on deaf ears. The captain orders him to step aside but he refuses and defiantly stands his ground.

"I cannot let you do this." The screen shows the doctor's eyes filled with terror over the man's fate and disgust over the captain's murderous decision. His quickened breathing causes his chest to heave. He knows by uttering those words that he seals his own fate.

"Then, so be it!" the captain shouts and fires a single shot from his flintlock pistol into the doctor's chest and he falls down amongst the crates of cargo.

At the same time, both Lucas and Jo flinched at the sound of the gunfire but Henry shot straight up to his feet. Jo quickly stood up next to him and grasped his clenched fists. She'd been so wrapped up in watching the scene that she only now noticed the sweat on his brow, his rapid breathing, and how the small muscles knotted and flinched in his face. His large eyes were wide with anger and she knew that he was reliving his first death through the images on the TV screen.

Fortunately, Lucas was still transfixed by the scene as it continued, showing Henry and the enslaved man he'd tried to save, being brought out of the cargo hold past the pen that held the other Africans. A key dropped from Henry's hand, unnoticed by the murderous-minded captain and crew, and it was stealthily retrieved by the slave named Osa. The same man Henry had tried unsuccessfully to secret the key to earlier.

"Wow, they, they got the key but ... too bad for those two guys," Lucas whispered. By the time he looked over at Henry and Jo for their reactions and input, Jo had wordlessly managed to calm the Immortal and get him seated again. Although his boss looked a little pale to him, Lucas concluded that it was from having watched the intense scene. He opened his mouth to say something but jerked his head back around to the TV screen at the sound of a large splash, then another.

Henry cringed at the sight of the two men being tossed mercilessly into the raging sea. His own memories rewound, independent of the images on the TV screen and, once again, he felt the physical pain of being shot; the vague perception through a semi-conscious fog of being carried then tossed overboard, crashing into and sinking beneath the angry depths. As if the depiction and his own memories of that horrific event weren't enough to upset him, the end of the scene caused him to nearly choke.

The captain hastily issues an order for his men to retreat once again from the raging storm into the bowels of the ship. A straggling crew member casts remorseful eyes at the spot where the two men had just been thrown over. He suddenly leans forward, gripping the side of the ship, his eyes widened in wonder. As lightning lights up a patch of water more brilliantly than any lightning strike he'd ever seen, he sees the doctor, recently claimed by the deep, shoot up out of the water apparently unharmed - and naked! The ship is moving at a fast enough clip that the image of the once dead man grows smaller and disappears along with the lightning bolt. He continues to lean and strain his eyes but he sees the sight no longer. A large wave crashes into the side of the ship, causing it to roll and knocks him down. He manages to frantically scramble to his feet and finally seeks the shelter of the below quarters. The scene ends with him safely below but shaking like a leaf on a tree from head to toe, both amazed and frightened at what he'd just witnessed.

"Never let a word of this drop from yer lips, Dundee," he warns himself, nervously wiping the sweat from his upper lip. "It's Bedlam for sure." He straightens up and realizes, "Or, more likely, the deep for you, as well."

At the start of the first of many commercials, Jo lowered the TV's volume instead of muting it, out of courtesy for their guest. But the room lay eerily silent for each of them felt impacted in different ways by the closing scene.

Henry, already on the edge of his seat, cast nervous glances between Jo and Lucas. His gaze rested mostly on his hands, though, as he struggled to calm himself. He wondered what thoughts were now in Lucas' imaginative mind. Was he putting two and two together, matching up the then with the now of Henry emerging from a waterway naked? Bollocks! It was his idea that he and Jo have a chaperone but it would have been so much better, so much easier if Abraham had been able to be there instead of ... instead of anyone else who didn't know his secret. But he knew he couldn't blame Jo. It wasn't her fault that he was the way he was.

Jo, sensing his agitated state, loudly asked, "Tea cakes anyone?" She jumped to her feet and tugged Henry's arm until he stood up, as well. "Yeah, help me bring 'em in, Henry." She continued to tug on his arm and motioned with her head towards the kitchen. Henry finally nodded and placed his hand on the small of her back and followed her. "We'll be right back, Lucas," she promised.

Lucas, uncharacteristically quiet and deep in thought, muttered an inaudible response, his eyes roaming around the room. Jo's words registered late with him and he turned to watch them just as they disappeared behind the kitchen door. He stared at the closed door for several seconds then shook his head, grinning slightly. "Strange coincidence. That's all."

Jo opened the fridge and brought out a plate of tea cakes her niece had baked in cooking class. "Grab some saucers, please," she asked Henry. While he did that, she grabbed the milk from the fridge, as well. "Glasses," she indicated with a nod at the cupboard. "Napkins," she muttered to herself and busily placed them on the kitchen island next to everything. She then hugged Henry and buried her face against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she managed through her tears. "I shouldn't have let Lucas come over here to watch this ... stupid show with us!" She shook her head causing her long tresses to tangle and bounce across her shoulders.

He felt oddly calm now, about the whole situation. He hugged her, rubbing one large palm up and down her back and kissed her on the side of her forehead. "Not your fault, darling." He kissed her forehead again and pulled back to look down into her upturned, tear-stained face. "Perhaps it's fate."

"How so?" she asked, wiping tears from her cheeks.

"Oh, I've been secretly entertaining the idea of letting our other three close colleagues in on my secret." She frowned up at him and he answered her unspoken question.

"It makes sense, Jo. My secret of immortality is a huge burden for you to have to carry all by yourself. And I ... I feel that they deserve to know, too." He also felt a great sense of relief if Lucas was managing to peek behind the mysterious shroud that surrounded his life. He picked up one of the napkins and dabbed at her eyes and her cheeks.

"Let's have no more of that, shall we?" She nodded and her smile met his in a loving kiss. They pulled away from each other and Henry jokingly suggested that they get back into the other room with their chaperone - ASAP.

vvvv

"Mike. Isn't that funny?" his wife, Karen, asked. "They have your friend's ancestor bobbing up in the water naked." The slight smile on her face gradually faded, though. "Nice touch, guys," she added sarcastically, referring to the show's writers.

"Yeah, funny," he softly replied. But it wasn't really funny to him. It was ... strange. Another strange coincidence? he thought. "Uh, excuse me, hon, I have to make a call." She was aware of his uneasiness and asked if everything was okay.

"Yeah, yeah, just remembered something I gotta call in real quick," he assured her. He managed a smile and patted her hand before stepping out onto the front porch to call Lucas. He paced back and forth impatiently until the call connected and Lucas answered.

"Lucas. This is Mike ... Yeah ... What are ya doin' over there?! ... Oh, well, get some privacy away from them ... Go out on the porch like me!" He heaved an exasperated sigh then said, "Good." He tapped one foot nervously as he waited for Lucas to come back on the line.

"Did you see that?" he asked Lucas, emphasizing each word but careful to keep his voice down this time.

 _("Look, I don't like talking behind their backs. Behind the Doc's back," he said. "Feels like I'm being, I don't know, disloyal or something.")_

Mike drew out a long sigh. "I know but ... that last bit where the guy ... Yeah, that Henry was thrown overboard fully clothed then, supposedly he died but was seen alive and naked in the water. Skinny dippin' just like the Doc!"

 _("Yeah, I saw it," Lucas uncomfortably replied. "I gotta go back in before they get suspicions.")_

"I'm just askin' a question." He paused for Lucas' reply that never came then he sighed. "You're right. Guess I just got a little carried away." He ran a hand through his hair. "Don't mind me," he chuckled a bit. "Go on back inside. Enjoy the rest of the show."

 _("No problem. G'nite.")_

The call ended, Mike went back into his home and resumed watching the rest of the show already in progress. He sat back down on the couch next to Karen and gave her a quick hug.

"Business taken care of?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "What's going on now?"

"Well, it's the next year already, uh, 1815. Somehow he survived that awful business at sea and he made it back home to England, can you believe it? The writers want us to believe that a person could have survived being shot point blank in the chest with a gun like that one," she scoffed.

"It would have blown a hole in his chest you could put your fist in," Mike said, his brow knitted. _'And made hamburger of his heart.'_

vvvv

Lucas knocked on Jo's door again but his earlier enthusiasm over viewing the episode was now gone. Mike's phone call had suddenly put a damper on the evening for him and he fought against a sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't like talking behind the Doc's back. Jo's either. After all, it was just a silly TV show. Wasn't it?

Jo opened the door wide for him but he stayed put on the doorstep. "Aren't you coming back in?"

"Uh, no, uh, something came up and I gotta bail."

"Oh. Okay. When it rains it pours, huh?" Jo rhetorically asked.

"Yeah," he chuckled, "Well, gotta book. Bye. And thanks for letting me come over even for a short time." He smiled and crept backwards down the stairs then turned and walked quickly away to the subway.

"Glad you could come," Jo replied. "See ya later." She watched him curiously as he walked then ran down the street away from her house. She closed the door then rejoined Henry on the sofa.

"Another one bites the dust," she jokingly told him.

"I take it we've lost our substitute chaperone, as well?"

Jo simply smiled and shrugged then turned her attention to the TV screen. "What's going on? What'd I miss? Who's the other guy?" Before Henry could answer any of her questions, she said, "Ohhh, Father Sullivan - old."

Henry filled her in on the flashback that had just ended of Nora having him committed to an asylum when he tried to tell her that he was now immortal after having been shot and killed by the captain of the slave ship.

"I was hauled off in a straight jacket like a veritable lunatic to Charing Cross Asylum where they experimented on me with so-called scientific methods to restore my sanity. After several months I was transferred to Warick Prison where I was simply forgotten; left to waste away and die." He gnashed the words out as he warily eyed Father Sullivan onscreen, happily saying that he believes his claim of immortality and that he knows how to help him.

"Is this where ... "

"Yes. This is when we planned my 'escape', my self-demise by ... hanging." Tight-lipped and tense, he visibly relaxed and blinked several times when the scene advanced to Father Sullivan being relentlessly questioned by prison authorities about his cellmate's escape.

Although defrocked for more than three years, the former clergyman refused to share any details of any of their conversations and swore that he "knew not how the young man had managed to escape". In truth, he didn't know. The why and how of Henry's immortality were a mystery.

The camera rolled over the inside of the abandoned ruins of the crumbling, dungeon-like prison as it stood today. Unnarrated wording without accompanying music scrolled up declaring that prison authorities never learned details of Dr. Henry Morgan's escape or who had aided him. Also, that even though his whereabouts after his escape remained unknown, there were unconfirmed sightings of him over the next 60 years.

"Well," Henry sighed with relief, "it would appear that my 'character' has finally fallen out of the story."

"And into legend," Jo added, smiling.

"Obscurity has always served me better," he noted with a tight-lipped smile.

vvvv

Joanna Reece lay alone and awake in her bed since her husband, Gregory, was at a late night meeting with his boss, Mayor Quarrels. Making sure that his boss came across well in an upcoming press conference and an early morning appearance on CNN was ruled more important than him sitting home to view a TV show with his wife. Their busy schedules often clashed, cutting into their time together, but they'd managed to keep the vibrancy in their marriage for 23 years.

Some explosive details in the latest episode nudged at her, fighting against her ability to fall asleep: the Henry Morgan character apparently survived a deadly gunshot wound and later appeared to be naked in the water. He'd gone in fully clothed, apparently died, but emerged moments later naked. Naked. His character had also claimed to be immortal? It remains unknown how he managed to escape from the fortified prison he was placed in or where he escaped to, but there were unconfirmed sightings of him for the next 60 years? She didn't like the conclusions her thoughts were forcing upon her so she chose to cap a lid on them.

"Oh, this is crazy," she said out loud. "Good night, Morgan Chronicles!" With that, she rolled over on her side, punched her pillow, and finally nestled into a sleep of dreams.

Notes:

Contains references to Forever TV shows S01/E01 Pilot; S01/E08 The Ecstacy of the Agony; S01/E15 Dead Men Tell Long Tales


	12. The Morgan Chronicles Ch12

Lucas took the last set of stairs up three at a time from the subway station near Clark and Henry Streets. He sincerely hoped that the power would be back on at his Brooklyn Heights apartment building, allowing him to not have to bumble around and shower in the dark. He'd ridden the subway home with a growing anxiety knotting his stomach and beads of sweat saturating his clothing. Given his fellow passengers' levels of apathy toward anyone or anything other than themselves, his sweaty anxiety had gone virtually unnoticed. The night air helped to cool him off but the anxiety still gnawed at him because he couldn't shake the image of Henry's ancestor's apparently swift recovery after his shooting death scene and ... resurrection(?). It was, as Mike had pointed out in his phone call earlier, eerily similar to the Doc's skinny dipping. Or was it skinny dipping? What was really going on with that, anyway?

It was also some other things Mike had mentioned. Like the odd assortment of clothing found hanging in the Doc's bedroom closet including that ancient British Naval uniform; a World War 2 green Army helmet emblazoned with Medic insignias; tuxedos like the ones worn in old black and white movies from the 1920's and 1930's; and more than a half dozen NYPD sweat suits. He'd actually saved the clothing issued to him after all those public nudity arrests? Why? For nostalgic reasons or maybe because they'd come in handy in case he - nah, couldn't be.

Lucas was afraid to finish the thought and after a brisk, five-minute walk, found himself climbing the stairs to his apartment building. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and a thank you to Con-Ed when he saw that the power was back on in his area. He punched in his code and quickly opened the door to let himself in after the buzzer sounded. Someone yelled out his name and he reached out and grabbed the doorknob just before the entrance door shut. At the same time, a hand pushed the door further open and someone with blonde curls peeking out from under a light blue hoodie hurried in behind him.

"Thanks, Lucas," a female voice panted out. "Saves me the trouble of putting in that stupid code."

"Everyone's supposed to punch in their own - " He abruptly stopped speaking when the person in front of him pulled her hoodie back and smiled smugly up at him. "For security reasons. It's in our lease," he said louder in an effort to drown out the sound of his rapidly beating heart.

"So sue me," the pretty, young woman laughingly dared him.

Lucas swallowed hard. Angela Mabry. That hot reporter who'd recently planted herself outside the Doc's antiques shop for a week and hounded him for an interview. What was she doing here? He'd promised the Doc that he would avoid her at all costs. He wanted no repeats of what had happened during the Gloria Carlyle case. Easier said than done, he woefully admitted to himself. She was smiling at him with those big, pretty eyes and ... those dimples. She's battin' her eyes, she's smellin' good and, and she's movin' closer? Dang, Doc!

"You, you're not supposed to be here," he finally managed to stammer out.

Angela frowned. "Who says?" she demanded. "I live here." Lucas gave her a look of surprise and pointed at her, then down at the floor.

"Here? You ... live here?"

"Yes. Apartment 3C. Directly below yours," she smilingly told him.

"I haven't - "

"Moved in last night." She squared her shoulders and gave him the once-over. "We're neighbors," she said more breathily. Her eyelids were half-closed now and her smile morphed into slightly parted lips ala Marilyn Monroe. "It's always good to know that there are nice neighbors a girl can borrow a cup of almond milk from." Her voice was sultry and low as her smile slowly returned.

There wasn't enough air to breathe all of a sudden. Lucas released the doorknob and the heavy entry door swung shut. "Well," he chuckled, "gotta go." He two-stepped over to the elevator and she caught up to him just as the elevator doors opened. They stepped inside and punched the button for their respective floors.

"Lucked out when I was moving in. Got everything in just before the power failed," she gladly recalled.

"Yeah. Lucky," Lucas politely replied. Too distracting. She's too distracting! But at least, he reluctantly admitted, she'd taken his mind off the Doc.

"So. You work at the morgue, right?" With Dr. Henry Morgan, is what she failed to include but he heard that omission loud and clear. He cleared his throat and willed the lit up button for his floor to hurry the elevator along.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," he blurted out. The elevator finally stopped and the doors slid open. The ambitious and determined blonde hottie laughed and stepped out, giving him a sly, parting wink.

When he finally reached his floor, he stepped out of the open doors and quickly made his way to his apartment. Once inside, he walked to the middle of the living room and stood there for several moments and examined his thoughts and feelings, a duality of unease. He recalled how much he'd looked forward to an evening of viewing the latest episode of TMC-TV, as he'd begun to call the mini-series, with his boss and mentor, Henry, and his finally girlfriend, Jo Martinez. And, at first, how flattered he'd been when she'd invited him over to her house to view it with them tonight.

Uneasiness had set in soon after the captain had shot and killed that Henry only to be replaced by subdued elation when it appeared that he may have survived the shooting. But it didn't make sense. How could he have survived? And why had he gone into the water fully clothed, bleeding and unconscious, but emerged naked and apparently unharmed? No blood. It would have been a scene he'd be happy to include in one of his short films, a character rising from the dead after being offed by another, were it not for the fact that this probably really happened to the Doc's ancestor.

No. Don't be ridiculous, Wahl. Just a bomb added to the script for shock and awe, he concluded. The Doc and his roommate/business partner collect antiques. That's all. He collapsed down on the sectional sofa laughing at himself for how freaked out he'd been, thinking that the Doc might be hiding something dark and mysterious ... well, more dark and mysterious than usual. And he now regretted having left Jo Martinez's home before seeing the rest of the episode.

And, to make matters worse, Angela Mabry, a paparazzi unto herself, was now his neighbor. He felt it was unfair that the Doc should hold him to his promise of avoiding her. But he knew he'd do his best to keep that promise. The Doc's trust in him was more important than possibly, finally, enjoying the company of an attractive, intelligent, accomplished female. Especially after the five-month date drought he was enduring.

"Don't worry, Henry," he said out loud to no one but himself, "I won't let her get to me."

vvvv

"Well, time for bed." Karen Hanson stood near the staircase, finger poised on the light switch on the wall as she silently coaxed her husband to follow her upstairs.

"Yeah." Mike stood with his hands on his hips, frowning at the now silent TV. He stood a few more moments pondering the events that had played out in the latest episode. Just how did he escape from that prison, Mike wondered. Why didn't he go back to his wife, Nora? Oh, scratch that. She was the one who'd sent him up there in the first place. But ... unconfirmed _sightings_ of him for the next 60 years? Like Big Foot or the Mothman, what? The Doc would probably have some answers, told himself. Ask him tomorrow.

The lights flicked off and he was temporarily engulfed in darkness. When they flicked back on, he made eye contact with his wife and chuckled softly at her playfulness.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming." He joined her at the foot of the stairs and she turned off the light again. They ascended the stairs to their bedroom on the second story.

"Really getting caught up in the story of the Morgan family, Mike," Karen teasingly observed as they readied for bed. "Maybe you should sell your own family's history. You could be the next instant celebrity in the precinct."

"Ya know, you might be right," he thoughtfully replied. "Cops and soldiers go way back in my family. You were either one or the other or both," he grinned. He joined his wife, already in bed, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. He kissed her on the forehead then lingeringly on the lips. Whatever troubled thoughts the broadcast had placed in his mind about the strange ME, Henry Morgan, were soon forgotten as he lost himself in Karen's loving embrace.

vvvv

Henry knocked softly on his son's bedroom door and waited for a response. When none came, he gently pushed the door open and peeped inside to see Abe in bed fast asleep. A large book he'd most likely been reading had dropped onto the floor beside his bed. Henry tiptoed over, bent down, and picked it up. He examined the book's cover and spine to see the title.

 _'Genealogies of the Landed British Gentry of the 18th Century. Huh.'_ He carefully laid the book down on the nightstand next to the bed and proceeded to bring the covers up and over Abe's arms, making sure he was warmly tucked in. _'Snug as a bug in a rug,'_ he remembered telling him when he was small. The Immortal dad smiled down lovingly at his sleeping son and patted the thinning, mostly gray hair on the top of his head with his hand. Abe stirred and mumbled something, then grew quiet again, his breathing slow and even. Henry bent down and kissed him on the forehead and quietly stole out of the room. Even though the contents of the large book had piqued his curiosity, he felt it was best to leave it where Abe could readily get to it when he woke up in the morning.

vvvv

Across the pond ...

Aidan Greene, the British actor who'd portrayed Henry Morgan thus far, stood on the sound stage awaiting the next "take". He was there to film the last of a handful of short scenes that would stretch over several decades. He hadn't immediately given much thought to the fact that Makeup hadn't added any wrinkles or gray hairs for his character but Wardrobe had been pretty busy updating his apparel to match the time periods that his character had reportedly been sighted. While his makeup and hair were touched up, he openly mused to the director.

"I take it that the supposed sightings of this fellow over the years were just cases of mistaken identity, right?"

"If you're going to start second-guessing the writers, that's your business. Getting these scenes completed is _my_ business," the difficult man harshly replied. "Daydream on your own time, Greene."

 _'Wanker (Idiot)!'_ Aidan angrily thought to himself but as soon as the Director yelled "Action!" he was in character again.

anglophilia/british-english-the-top-50-most-beautiful-british-insults/


	13. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 13

Lieutenant Joanna Reece closed the door to her office and walked over to sit in the chair behind her desk. Having made it to work in one piece was nothing short of a miracle, she thought, since she'd been so preoccupied with the last episode of "The Morgan Chronicles". Specifically, the part where the straggling sailor saw that Henry reviving in the ocean after having been shot dead by the ship's captain. And, that little tidbit about him having been spotted from time time over the next several decades after his escape from prison. Hollywood fantasy or ... or what?

She shook her head and took a sip from her coffee cup. No expensive, specialty coffees for her; the regular brew from the diner around the corner from the precinct was good enough. And the caffeine was much needed this morning. Her mind's wanderings took her back three years ago to a certain morning in December, just before Christmas, when she'd taken their quirky ME, Henry Morgan, to task about having been arrested again for skinny dipping. As she recalled her irritation with him and how she'd grilled him on his unsettling habit, she also remembered how his explanation of being a somnambulist hadn't quite struck the right chords with her. Not then and not now.

"You're a terrible liar, Henry," she indicted him with a murmur as she stared at the chair he'd sat in opposite her desk, trying unsuccessfully to mask the truth. But _what_ truth? "What exactly are you hiding?"

When she'd heard the teasing that those in the bullpen were giving him, she'd winced, but had chosen not to step in and stop it. Maybe their teasing would shame him into never skinny dipping again, she'd thought. Maybe stop him from sleeping nude and push him into finally buying a pair of pajamas and actually _using_ them. The teasing had been for his own good, the Lieutenant reminded herself as if that would help her deal with the guilt that continued to nag at her. Her desk phone rang, bringing her out of her thoughts and she gratefully gave her attention to the call.

vvvv

Sitting at his workstation in the morgue, Lucas seemed oddly distracted, troubled, even. Not in his usual cavalier, joking mood. The two detectives, Jo and Mike, had just been briefed by Henry about their latest vic, a 27-year-old white male, a part-time college student and part-time care giver. While resting after having moved into his new apartment, he'd suffered a sudden heart attack. The three older adults in the room sadly acknowledged that 27 was far too young to die from anything. Henry, however, had assured them that heart attacks were becoming more common among young people and the victims were getting younger.

"Some of the causes of early heart attacks in men include abnormalities of one or more arteries, or blood clots that form elsewhere and are carried to the coronary arteries. Also, clotting system disorders, spasm or inflammation of the arteries, chest trauma, and drug abuse." But he quickly ruled out drug abuse in this case.

"Bad ticker," Hanson simplified in his usual manner after a lecture-length of explanation from the ME.

A tight-lipped Henry dipped his head in his direction as confirmation of that. "Unfortunately, in young Merrill Winnemucker's case, although generally healthy and not obese, arterial spasms led to his cardiac arrest."

"Lesson learned," Jo sighed. "Don't try to move all the heavy stuff by yourself." She looked questioningly at Henry with raised eyebrows and shifted her eyes over to the still reticent Lucas, then back to him. He glanced over at Lucas, who had now joined the group and stood to Henry's left, clutching a clipboard to his chest.

"Were you familiar with the victim, Lucas?" Henry asked. "You seem somewhat preoccupied."

"Uh, no, no," he responded, shaking his head. He took a deep breath and leaned down closer to Henry, lowering his voice. "I was thinking about my newest neighbor. Angela Mabry." He straightened back up, nodding at Henry's reaction of widening his eyes and frowning.

"How ... ?" Henry started. He then exchanged a look with a Jo, who folded her arms and glowered at the thought of the persistent reporter.

"I'm on it, Henry," Jo promised him. "Thanks for the update on our - Mr. Winnemucker." She managed to remember to refer to him by his name rather than as a "vic". It meant a lot to Henry that she and the others act respectfully toward any and all whose bodies wound up on one of the morgue's stainless steel tables. Turning her attention to Lucas, she got Angela's apartment number from him. "Don't worry. She's mine." She nudged a confused Mike, letting him know it was time for them to leave.

"Angela? She ... who? Who's yours?" Mike darted his eyes between Henry and Lucas but neither responded. He quickly turned and caught up with Jo just as she cleared the doorway of the morgue and stepped into the hallway.

"Just a bee in Henry's bonnet," Jo replied dryly as she punched the elevator's up button. She couldn't help but chuckle at her partner's look of cluelessness regarding that colorful description. As they rode the car up to their floor, she filled Mike in on how Angela Mabry had hounded Henry for an interview, wishing to tie it in with the TV mini-series growing in popularity with them and many of their colleagues, friends, and families.

"I don't see the problem," Mike countered, spreading his hands. "I mean he's been fillin' _you_ in on his family history and how it does or does not sync with the show. Why not capitalize on his newfound celebrity status? Take it to a new level. Maybe get a reality show out of this," he chuckled.

Jo rolled her eyes and walked ahead of him out of the elevator and into the bullpen. "Henry fiercely guards his privacy," she quietly reminded him as she sat down at her desk. "She confronted him in the morgue's breakroom the other day and now she's moved into Lucas' apartment building." Jo swiveled her chair around to face Mike. "I call that stalking." She swiveled back around to face her desk. "He's already had one of those and we don't wanna go down _that_ road again." Jo didn't have to remind Mike about the incidents of three years ago when Henry had reluctantly confided in them that he was being stalked. And how things had eventually escalated to where he'd been forced to kill Clarke Walker* after he'd broken into the residential part of his and Abe's antiques shop.

"Okay, okay, you wanna protect your fancy-pants boyfriend, I get it," Mike teasingly conceded. "I like the Doc, too," he quickly added when met with Jo's scowl of disapproval. "Need any help knockin' her off the Doc's trail?" he offered in an effort toward conciliation.

She finally relaxed into a smile. "If I do, I'll let you know." The female sleuth decided to start by following the money. More specifically, where Angela Mabry earned her money: The New York Times. A quick phone call to the publication's HR Department proved fruitless. She hung up with a confused frown on her face. _'No Angela Mabry, no Angela, no one with last name Mabry, listed either as an employee or as a contributor. Ever. Time for a housecall.'_

vvvv

"Yes, yes, I've moved in already," an irritated Angela Mabry replied, her American accent abandoned for her natural British one. She paced the length of her apartment's living room then sat down on the couch. As she listened to the caller on the other end of the line, she closed her eyes and shook her head, releasing a sigh of frustration.

"He. Is. By. FAR. the most frustrating, most exasperating, most **stubborn** person I have ever encountered!" The caller's question caused her to twist in her seat left and right then slap her palm down on her knee.

"Luc - , no! Dr. Henry Morgan," she clarified. "Mums the word appears to be his motto but his assistant, Lucas Wahl, gets the collywobbles whenever he sees me. Still he avoids me like I've got the plague." Angela's blonde curls bounced as she closed her eyes and nodded while the caller spoke.

"I'll ... yes ... I'll, I'll do my best, yes." She sighed. "Turn my feminine wiles loose on Wahl," she smugly repeated and bid the caller good-bye and ended the call. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes again. Her stomach growled to remind her it was short a meal.

"I could murder (devour) a sandwich from Katz's right now," she muttered, pressing a hand on her stomach as if to suppress the sounds of hunger. She quickly stood up, having made her food choice and made sure that she had her purse and cell phone and grabbed the jacket she'd tossed onto the arm of the couch earlier. After turning on the TV to a home shopping channel (to give would-be burglars the false impression that the apartment was occupied during her absence), she snatched the entry door open. Angela froze at the unexpected sight of Jo Martinez facing her door, balled fist raised and poised as if to knock.

Jo lowered her hand and placed it on her waist next to the badge clipped on her belt. "Angela Mabry - Detective Jo Martinez, NYPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your employer, The New York Times." When an uncertain Angela didn't answer right away, Jo pressed her lips together tightly, then added, "Well, we both know the truth about that, don't we? Oh, and, uh, perhaps I should call you by your true name ... Cynthia. Cynthia Morgan." As she watched the color drain from the young blonde's face, Jo couldn't help but think how much she loved her job as a detective. Right now she really loved it.

vvvv

Trillingham Manor ...

The grandfather clock in the expansive hallway struck 7:00 PM. A frail Lord Henry Morgan lay in his bed and listened to the reverberating bongs. He slowly reached for the gold pocket watch on his night stand. The watch was a gift from the producers of the mini-series airing on the BBC and had been used as a prop on the show. A near-perfect replica of the one gifted to Henry Morgan two centuries before by his dying father, he'd been told. The young, ailing man gathered the timepiece up in his hands but it slipped from his grasp and thudded softly down onto the thick, bedroom carpet. He closed his eyes and sighed, laughing softly at himself, at his feeble efforts.

"Just as well," he rasped to himself. "If nothing else, one can always trust the old clock in the hallway to clang out the correct time." He coughed loudly several times and grimaced as the pain in his chest worsened. The coughing spell thankfully subsided and he struggled to even out his breathing. His bedroom door opened and the night nurse entered to administer his medications. She gasped when she spotted his pocket watch on the floor in front of the night stand.

"Oh, Your Lordship, let me get that for you."

"Thank you - ?" He frowned when her name escaped him.

"Elmira, Your Lordship," she gently reminded him with a smile and placed the watch in his hand.

"Right. Elmira. I'll be sure to remember it," he promised her with good intentions again.

"Yes, Your Lordship," she replied. Again. _'Such a shame, it is, a comely young man hastening towards death's door.'_

"What do you (cough, cough, cough) think of the broadcast thus far, dear lady? Are we still a ratings success?" he asked, grinning.

"Oh, it's simply smashing, Your Lordship," she replied, smiling softly. "Simply smashing. But you must allow me to give your medicine to you now," she gently but firmly reminded him.

"Oh, alright. Let's have the bloody pills." For all the good it would do, he thought. While he washed what he was sure were merely sugar pills down with water, he recalled his latest phone conversation with his sister, Cynthia. Had she finally found the right Henry Morgan this time? The resemblance was there, his sister had excitedly told him. And he was a doctor, so that fit, too. Would he be able to meet the man, though, before ... before his illness consumed him? It would help matters along if the doctor would only agree to answer a few questions! Blast! 

"Good night, Your Lordship. Rest well," Elmira said and turned off the lights just before leaving the room.

"Good night. And thank you," he replied. He hadn't forgotten her name this time, though, even if that's what she thought. It was the bloody pills. They always ushered him to dreams after taking them. But which one of the five pills was the culprit, he wasn't sure. Cynthia. Cynthia, he silently urged his sister an ocean and continent away. Please let him know that he needs to get here, to me, as soon as possible. I have so much to tell him.


	14. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 14

_Angela froze at the unexpected sight of Jo Martinez facing her door, balled fist raised and poised as if to knock._

 _Jo lowered her hand and placed it on her waist next to the badge clipped on her belt._

 _"Angela Mabry - Detective Jo Martinez, NYPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your employer, The New York Times." When an uncertain Angela didn't answer right away, Jo pressed her lips together tightly, then added, "Well, we both know the truth about that, don't we? Oh, and, uh, perhaps I should call you by your true name ... Cynthia. Cynthia Morgan."_

vvvv

Cynthia huffed out a quick sigh of disgust at her cover having been blown but she didn't look surprised. It had happened before but not so quickly as this time. She met Jo's half-amused eyes with tired resignation, then stepped back and motioned for Jo to enter her apartment. She turned and flopped down onto the couch, leaving Jo to close the door and seat herself. Or not.

"How long have you known?" she asked, looking Jo up and down.

Jo walked slowly in and stopped to stand in front of her, giving the room a quick glance and casting a wary eye on the bedroom door. "Not long," she replied. "Keep your hands where I can see them," she warned the young woman who scoffed and placed her hands on top of her head, fingers interlaced.

"Will this do, Constable?" she mockingly asked. She turned slightly, making sure that Jo saw her lop-sided grin.

" **Cut** the crap! And it's De- **TEC** -tive. Anyone else here?" Jo demanded, moving cautiously toward the door.

"No," Cynthia replied, her mocking tone turned bitter. "See for yourself." She straightened her torso and sat angrily patient while Jo searched the rest of the apartment. Satisfied that she and Cynthia were the only ones there, Jo returned to the living room.

"May I, please?" Cynthia asked, pushing her elbows in towards her face then back. "My arms are getting tired." Jo waved for her to lower them. Cynthia sighed and asked if she was under arrest.

"Funny you should ask that," Jo chuckled. "I could probably run you in for stalking Dr. Morgan."

"Stalking? I - ," Cynthia began. "I merely wished to speak with him, to ask him some ... pointed questions."

"About ... ?" Jo asked, cocking her head to the side.

The young woman took in a deep breath and slowly released it. "About his family history," she slowly and reluctantly admitted. "My brother, Henry, and I, believe that he is descended from Peter Alun Morgan who later added Robert to the front of his name."

"Why is that important to you and your brother?" Jo asked, frowning slightly, suspicion evident in her voice.

"Because," Cynthia loudly began, almost lurching at Jo, whose hand jumped to her weapon. Then Cynthia calmed herself and lowered her voice. "Because ... because my brother needs him. He needs him desperately. We believe he can save my brother's life if ... if he is the one we've searched for all these many years."

Jo's frown deepened into confusion. "Why? Because he's a, a doctor? Henry's an ME, a Medical Examiner. It's been years since he was a practicing physician for the living."

"You don't understand," Cynthia replied. Her breaths shuddered in and out and she tore her once defiant gaze away from Jo's piercing eyes. "My brother doesn't have much more time." She looked up at Jo again with a pinched expression, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Please. I must speak with him." All pretense seemed to have been swept aside now. She hung her head, wringing her hands in her lap.

Against her better judgment, Jo sat down next to the anguished woman. "What makes you so sure that Dr. Morgan can help your brother? What medical relief do you think he can administer to your brother that other doctors can't?"

Cynthia smiled and laughed softly as she raised her head and blinked back her tears. "I don't expect you to believe me. There's oral family history, and then there's ... this. A tale almost too fantastical for even _me_ to believe." She paused momentarily and added, "Except I do."

A smile began to grow on Jo's face. A knowing smile. "Try me," was all she said. For the better part of an hour, she listened to an animated Cynthia Morgan as she shared the fantastical tale that had become part of her family's lore. A tale of an ancestor, a doctor, believed to have been murdered by a vicious sea captain two hundred years ago, only to turn up alive several months later.

"People were probably reported lost at sea all the time and it turned out not be true," Jo said in an attempt to downplay the relevance of Cynthia's story.

"True," Cynthia conceded. "But consider this." She told Jo of numerous documented reports made by people in several countries of encounters with him dating as far back as 1814, up to the mid 1950's.

"The sailor on the slave ship who'd seen the doctor resurface unharmed after they'd tossed him overboard was actually a man named Bram Paterson. Ten years later, shortly before his death, Paterson shared what he'd witnessed that night in a letter to the doctor's wife, Nora Morgan. It was the first of many news articles and firsthand accounts she would receive." Cynthia studied Jo's face, taking in what she perceived to be skepticism and offered to show her photostats of those articles and letters.

"She kept them all at the home they'd shared in Hertfordshire along with her personal diary in which she wrote of her own encounter with him in 1865. He'd been working at a London hospital as a staff doctor and - " Her words now escaped her as quickly as the foamy liquid from an uncorked bottle of champagne.

Jo put up a hand to stop her. She'd already heard the harrowing story from Henry. Were there no happy stories to be shared from his long life?

A crestfallen Cynthia tiredly groaned, "You don't believe me. Look, if I'm not under arrest, then ... leave. Please leave."

Jo stiffened at her request but remained in her seat. While sympathetic to Cynthia's cause, her first loyalty was to their own Henry - _her_ Henry - and guarding his secret of immortality.

"You're not under arrest," she quietly replied. She slowly rose to her feet and walked a few paces towards the door, then turned to face Cynthia again.

"Not saying I believe you or not." That, to protect Henry. "And I can't promise you anything, but I'll talk to Dr. Morgan. Try to convince him to meet with you." What had she just said? OMG. But she couldn't help but return the young woman's look of hopefulness with a smile.

"Here's my card if you need to get in touch with me in the meantime. But give me a couple of days, okay? Henry's kinda ... stubborn and ... set in his ways."

"Sounds just like my brother, Henry," Cynthia chuckled.

vvvv

Later that evening, at Abe's Antiques ...

"Jo, you can't be serious!" Henry exclaimed. He shook his head and raised his arms, waving them as he quickly paced away from her. "No."

"Henry, she sounded so desperate. I ... I believe her. That she and her brother, the English Lord, are your descendants. At least, from what I've gathered on them, that they're both members of _your_ Morgan family." Jo paused and surveyed the worried map of his face. "I'm a good detective, Henry," she firmly asserted.

"You are a _great_ detective," he quietly corrected her. He blinked several times and pressed his lips together. "And I'm very sure that you've done your due diligence. Not disputing that." He met her gaze then lowered his eyes and sat down in the chair behind his desk in his basement laboratory.

"Let me see, according to what Cynthia Morgan told you, unbeknownst to me, certain members of our family have managed to keep track of me through the decades. And that by confirming my existence to her and to her brother, Henry, there will be no consequences suffered by me."

Jo nodded. "They've kept your secret, Henry, for a long time," she reminded him. "And you said 'our' family. Does that mean you believe her and you're willing to meet with her?"

"That isn't the point, Jo. I stopped keeping track of my family in the early 1900's when I moved to New York. Watching them from the sidelines as they'd all grown old and died or died too young had become more than I could bear." He pulled his lips in, frowning. "Bringing them back into my life now would simply be too painful."

Arms crossed, Jo bit her lower lip as she considered his words. She walked slowly over to the large chalkboard shoved into a corner of the light-deprived room. On it were the dates, times, and lengths of just a smidgen of his numerous deaths. Although she could understand his apprehension at willingly sharing information about his unique condition with even these two, newest family members, it remained unfathomable to her how much he dwelt on the death and dying part of life instead of the living part of it. She hated that he felt he needed to hide from the world instead of finding a comfort zone with family and friends.

"You think me coward," he stated more than asked as he watched her study what Abe had sarcastically dubbed his death board.

"Well, I don't know about Jo, but I certainly do," Abe interrupted with a sardonical reply. They both snatched their heads in the direction of his voice, neither of them having been aware of his presence until now. Henry quickly left his seat and jogged over to the stairs where Abe stood three steps up from the bottom.

"Abraham!" he breathlessly exclaimed. "Are you sure you should be attempting this? Your back needs more time to heal before descending and ascending a staircase." He reached out to help his son down the rest of the way but was impatiently waved off.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." Abe continued to wave off his dad's and now Jo's help, as he took small, deliberate steps and eventually wound up in front of the settee to the left of his dad's desk. He slowly turned around, carefully bent his knees and, grasping the edge of the settee with one hand and bracing himself against the cushions with the other, managed to sit down on it.

"Ahhh," he sighed, looking up at the concerned duo. "There. See? No cowardice here."

"Abe," Henry groaned, turning away and shoving his hands down into his pockets. Jo looked down at Abe with a raised eyebrow, silently chastising him for being so brash with his father.

Abe relented. "Look, Dad. I got most of the story while coming down the stairs. Jo's right." He continued as Henry straightened, hunching his shoulders, and taking in a deep breath. "My vote is for you to go talk to this Cynthia; get the dope from her, or spill your guts to her or whatever you're supposed to do."

Jo licked her lips and pulled them in, fighting against grinning while Henry slowly turned to face his son.

"Your ability to butcher the English language never ceases to amaze me, Abraham." He shook his head and pulled his smile into a thin line (or, as much as he could) and shifted his gaze upward to Jo.

"All in favor of Henry meeting with Cynthia, raise their hand," Abe jokingly announced and raised his open palm up, facing Henry. Jo did likewise, causing Henry to purse his lips tighter and furrow his brow.

"Alright, I'll ... think about it," he finally said. At their looks of disappointment, he quickly raised a finger and bowed his head, adding, "I didn't say no." Jo and Abe exchanged a look and they both shrugged at each other.

"But for now, Abraham, let's get you back upstairs and into bed," Henry instructed. After a false start, Abe allowed Henry and Jo to help him stand. They aided him as far as to the bottom of the stairs and Abe looked up, eyes widened under raised eyebrows.

"Uh, hate to admit that you may have been right. Perhaps my little exercise in stair climbing was a mistake. Maybe we should get one of those little seats installed to haul me up, eh?" he softly chuckled.


	15. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 15

Abe let out a long, gravelly groan as he finally made it back up the stairs to the first floor with the help of both Henry and Jo.

"Ohhhh, you're not gonna get me up those," he told them as he eyed the flight of stairs leading up to the living quarters. "Why did I get the bright idea that I could ... " He suddenly caught himself, biting off the end of his thought, ignoring Henry's 'I-told-you-so' look out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat and pointed towards the small room behind the retail floor's front counter.

"Just park me in there for now." Once inside the room, Henry and Jo helped him lie down on the chaise lounge against the wall in the far corner of the room near the side entrance. The mini fridge against the opposite wall was, thankfully, stacked with various alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages, deli meats, and cheeses.

 _'So, I won't starve down here,'_ he chuckled to himself _._ And the half-bath they'd had installed five years ago would definitely come in handy.

"Here, Abraham," Henry said and deposited a pillow and blankets on the end of the chaise. He leaned forward, a concerned look on his face, and placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "Now, if there's anything more you need, don't hesitate to let me know. Jo and I have to pop out for a bit but I should return shortly."

"Thanks, Dad. Jo." He settled back onto the chaise and closed his eyes. "I'll just take a little nap." The twosome smiled, turned, and began walking out of the small room.

"Don't forget to lock the door and turn the sign to 'Closed' on your way out," he reminded them. "Oh! And while you're 'popping' out there, how about bringing me back some of those chocolate-covered strawberries from that Edibly Incredible store?" He beamed a broad smile at his father when he stopped and turned around, squinting and frowning at him.

Jo bit her lower lip in a vain effort to hide a grin. "Oh, c'mon, Henry," she said, patting him playfully on the arm. "You know you like spoiling him."

vvvv

"So, where exactly are we supposed to be going, Henry?" Jo asked as she started up her assigned police car and she and Henry buckled their seatbelts. She waited for his reply before pulling away from the curb.

"Perhaps ... your place," he finally decided. "We need total privacy and I didn't want to discuss this in front of Abraham."

The quiet seriousness in his tone and demeanor reminded her of when he'd shared his secret of immortality and long story with her. She gave a quick nod and put the car into gear, pulling away from the curb and into traffic.

"My place it is," she quietly replied, squeezing his hand. A weak smile crossed his lips and quickly faded. They rode mostly in silence part of the way until Jo's curiosity got the better of her.

"I assume this has something to do with your two newest relatives," she stated.

He released a soft sigh. "In a way, yes." He softened his look a bit and glanced over at her. "Sorry to be so mysterious, Jo, but ... there's a part of my story that is, well ... complicated."

"Henry, your entire _life_ is complicated," she pointed out. She glanced quickly at him then back at the traffic just as the light turned green again and she drove through the last intersection before reaching her house. "But there's a big piece you left out ... right?"

 _'And, once again, proof that you are a great detective, Jo Martinez,'_ he told himself. She parked the car in front of her house and he opened the car door and jumped out even before she could turn the engine off. Before she knew it, he was opening the driver's side door for her. When she gave him a pointed stare meant to remind him that she wasn't helpless, he said, "Sorry. Old habits die hard."

Once inside her house, he took in a deep breath, expecting to feel more secure but instead felt more apprehensive about what he was to share with her. They removed their top coats and he, his scarf, and hung them on the coat rack in the hallway. He then followed her into the kitchen and sat on one of the tall stools at the kitchen island.

"I'll put on a pot of coffee," Jo said. She glanced at him periodically as she poured the water into the reservoir and measured out the grounds into the top of the outdated Hamilton Beach coffee maker, a wedding present from Sean's Uncle Ernie. While the brewing machine worked, she sat on the stool next to Henry. She waited for him. For him to be ready.

He closed his eyes in an effort to gather his courage, his words, and twisted the seat underneath him until he faced her. "There's ... another Immortal," he breathed out. Her eyes widened and her shoulders hunched and stiffened a bit. He swore he saw a glint of terror flash in her eyes but he'd broken the ground. Might as well plod on through.

"He calls himself Adam. But he may have been living under the name of ... Dr. Lewis Farber, earning a living as a therapist at Bellevue Hospital." He answered her unspoken question. "The therapist I received one session from three years ago and the same man that you and I met with when he pointed us to Clarke Walker as my possible stalker. In truth, Adam was my stalker. I didn't find out until after I'd ... until after Walker's death." He took in another quick breath and met her gaze.

"We ... sat there with that man and he, he was, he seemed so nice," she said, shaking her head and blinking several times. "Henry, I, I don't understand. Why was he stalking you? I mean if you and he share the same condition, why wouldn't he just want to be friends with you?"

"Because he's a sick man, Jo. A psychopath. And a serial killer. Centuries of being forced to live in the shadows most likely drove him mad. He said he thought he was alone until he found out about me." The memory of his beloved Abigail taking her own life to protect him from the Immortal madman darkened his countenance. He broke away from the painful memory and studied Jo in order to gauge her reaction. She opened her mouth to say something but the full coffee pot caught her eye. He left his seat to help her with the rest of the preparation.

"Let's go back in here," she said softly and led the way back into the living room. Carefully setting her cup down on its saucer on the coffee table, she then dropped down on the couch with one leg curled up under her. "Start from the beginning," she instructed him by force of habit in her authoritative interrogator's voice.

As he filled her in on Adam, he sat in his usual spot at first, occasionally rising and pacing back and forth in front of her only to retake his seat. She listened quietly, following him with a piercing stare as he moved around the room.

"I see. So it was this ... Adam, who'd called you, taunting you, when we first met in the Morgue during the subway crash investigation," she repeated. Henry nodded. "And he had the audacity to call you on the phone in myyyy hospital room once the case was closed, taunting you again." Her voice rose with a growing anger as she reviewed the events in her mind. Anger stemming from her inability to have helped Henry against the maniac at the time. Anger at herself for not having acted on the clues she'd picked up back then surrounding the mysterious ME. However, she fought against the anger she felt towards Henry for not having allowed her to even know what had been going on. Henry pressed his lips together but remained silent.

Raising her cup up to her lips and blowing on it to cool the liquid before sipping, she asked, "Why did you hide this for so long?" Even though she felt she knew why.

"Over time, he seemed to have figured out that I regarded you more than as just a professional partner. That I had feelings for you," he clarified. "I was afraid that he would harm you. Especially if you got in the way of him getting his pugio back."

She frowned, remembering how pissed off she'd been at Henry for his erratic behaviour during the investigations into the murders of Blair Dryden and Xander de Soto. At the heart of the case was the missing Roman dagger, the pugio. At the time, she'd had no idea of its real significance or why Henry had been so bent on distracting her away from it so that he could, as it had turned out, find it himself.

"Why was it so important for you to have found that dagger at that time, Henry?"

"It was important to Adam. He'd apparently held onto it for a long while but said the Nazis had taken it away from him while he was in a prison camp during the second world war. He wanted it back in order to help prove his theory that ... " He paused momentarily but continued. " ... that the weapon responsible for making us this way could also be used to permanently kill us."

Jo blinked several times and shuddered. "I can see now why you didn't want to discuss this in front of ... in front of your son." She lowered her eyes and asked if Adam's theory was correct.

"In my case, apparently not. He'd somehow managed to steal the flintlock pistol from the safe in my laboratory." He explained further about their meeting in the bowels of the subway system that had turned into a confrontation.

"I gave him the dagger and attempted to walk away, to be through with him, I thought." He scoffed and continued. "He let me know that it was all a part of another of his elaborate games when he fired my gun into the air with the intention of drawing your attention to our location."

The memory of hearing the odd-sounding gunshot in the subway came back to her. She remembered the abandoned subway platforms below the active one she had been on and followed the sound of the shot downward to the sounds of muffled, angry voices and a second gunshot.

"Adam wanted to make sure that you found me so he shot me in the chest again; almost exactly in my original wound. He intended to leave me there for you to find me; see me die and disappear or just die. It mattered not to him." The memory, long buried, now presented itself again to him, in crystal clarity.

"You must have ... died and ... disappeared. All I found was your watch and that old, black-and-white photograph of you and Abigail and baby Abe." She sat back, taking him in. Farber's unfortunate suffering from locked-in syndrome had become common knowledge both in the precinct and in the morgue. How he had been made to succumb to it had remained a mystery. That is, until now.

"What exactly did you do to him, Henry?"

"Does that really matter now?"

"You're telling me this much. Might as well tell me all of it." Jo was in full detective interrogator mode now. "I need to know all the facts - "

"In order to protect me?"

"In order to _help_ you, Henry."

"A syringe filled with nothing but air can cause a considerable amount of damage to the person injected with it."

"You brought a syringe to a gunfight?"

"As it turned out, it proved to be the deadlier weapon," he smugly remarked. "Besides, I'm a doctor. Not a killer. If it proved necessary, and it did," he added, dipping his head in her direction, "I was sure that he could be subdued by medical methods." He sighed. "I managed to stab him in his jugular with the syringe and inject air into it. It created an embolism - "

"An air bubble." Jo's brow knitted as she took in Henry's words. _'That crazy, little man is being held down in a hospital bed by a little bubble of air?'_ She pulled in a breath and puffed it out.

"If or when he ever shakes it off, he'll most likely want revenge." It was the unsaid that had hung in the air. She was bold and realistic enough to state it out loud.

"Exactly. Not only against me but against anyone close to me or even associated with me. Which is why it would be dangerous for me to acknowledge Cynthia and her brother as any sort of family."

"Abe," Jo said worriedly.

"Oddly enough, Adam once promised me that he would never harm a hair on Abraham's head because they had both endured the horrors of being prisoners at Auschwitz." He sipped his coffee and held the mug away from him, examining it, pulling in his lips. He suddenly laughed, shaking his head.

"And to think that I had briefly entertained sharing my true reality with Lt. Reece, Det. Hanson, and young Lucas." He laughed again and set his cup down on its saucer on the coffee table. "Putting them in danger, as well. How silly of me."

"Henry. You said that Adam might get back at those merely associated with you."

"Yes. I wouldn't put it past him."

"So you believe that it would be best for someone to be blindsided by his possible vengeance?"

He frowned at her assumption. "No. A person should be apprised of impending danger. Gives them an added layer of protection." His frown melted away when he met her tilted head smile that said 'Gotcha'. He rolled his eyes and closed them, exhaling loudly.

"Jo, telling you about me and my secrets has been one of the most difficult things I've ever done. Telling the others ... well ... that's going to require a bit more courage than I think I now have."

"Well, then borrow some of mine. And Abe will help," she remind him, squeezing his hand.

He lowered his head and chuckled. "You and my son seem to have formed a most formidable alliance. The, uh, Get Henry to Do This or That Alliance," he said, chuckling more. "Perhaps it would be best if I ... moved on," he sighed. "Journeyed off to parts unknown."

She surprised him (and herself) by suddenly plopping down on his lap, causing him to let out a loud "Oof!"

"You do that, Mister, and I'll track you down to wherever you're hiding, shoot you, and haul your naked butt from whatever body of water you pop up in. I'll haul your butt all the way back home where you belong!" He knew that she meant every word by the dark scowl on her face and the gruffness of her tone.

"Home, Jo?" he asked, a familiar half-smile on his face as his arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer.

"Yes," she replied, her voice and expression softened. "Where you belong." She brought her arms up and around his shoulders, pressing her forehead against his. They quickly closed the last few inches between them and their lips met in a tender kiss.

vvvv

"Abraham?" Henry called out as he entered the shop and locked the door back. "Abraham, I have something for you!"

Abe emerged from the small room yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. For just a moment, Henry was hurtled back to the times his when his young son had woken up and excitedly greeted him upon his return home.

"Mmmm. Dad. Hi," he sleepily greeted him. "Oh, you remembered my strawberries?" he asked, suddenly more awake.

"Yes," he replied, grinning. "Here you are."

Abe thanked him and happily opened the carton and plucked one of the fruit from it and bit into it. "Mmmm, yummy. Thanks, Pops." He devoured the rest of the strawberry and plucked another one out from its nesting.

"My back is much better, by the way. Mobility much improved. I was able to sit out here at the front counter and do a little more reading from that big book about the Landed Gentry." He consumed the rest of the second strawberry and closed the carton, setting it on the counter's top.

He sat in the chair behind the counter and pulled the large book over in front of him. Henry stood behind him as he opened it to a marked page. "I believe I've found out just exactly how Cynthia and her brother, Henry, are related to us." Pointing to a rectangle-enclosed name a little above the middle of the page, he said, "Here."

Henry leaned and looked over Abe's shoulder to view the name. "Nora," he whispered, incredulous.

"Not exactly," Abe replied. "Her son, Albert."

He frowned. "But ... how ... ?"

"Sorry, Dad. But in my best Maury Povich impersonation, 'You are NOT the father'."

"That would mean that ... " Henry began, enlightenment growing on his face.

"Cynthia and her brother, Henry, are not Morgans," Abe finished. "But they probably think they are," he conceded. "According to the family lineage outlined in this book, they descend from Albert Morgan, son of Nora Perth and her husband, Henry Morgan. You," Abe said, pointing to Henry.

"Only, unless you and she had conjugal visits back then - "

"Most certainly not!" Henry exclaimed.

"Then, this kid, Albert, born more than a year after your ... escape ... from Southwark Prison, no way he was yours. But being a married woman and wanting to save face ... "

"She passed him off as my son," Henry concluded, laughing softly. "I wonder how many people believed _that_?"

"Cynthia and Henry, to name two," Abe sarcastically replied.


	16. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 16

Abe, with Henry's help, slowly but surely made it up the stairs to the second floor living quarters and into his bedroom.

"I can take it from here, Pops," Abe breathlessly but confidently informed him. "I'm getting around much better, don't ya think?" he asked, grinning.

"Yes, much better," Henry replied. He picked up the strawberry treats from where he'd placed them on the nightstand while watching Abe retrieve some pajamas from the bureau drawers. "I'll take care of these." Abe nodded and proceeded to dress for bed.

Henry took the decadent dessert into the kitchen and put it in the refrigerator. He quickly returned to his son's room and knocked softly on the door. "Okay for me to come back in?"

"Sure," Abe replied. He met his father's smile with a smile when Henry opened the door.

"Kinda too bad about Cynthia and Lord Henry not being really related by blood," Abe said quietly, a trace of 'what if' in his voice. Henry shoved his hands down into his pockets and walked slowly into the room and simply nodded.

Abe chuckled. "Seems like it was a lot of that goin' on back then: babies being begat out of wedlock," he chuckled more loudly.

"Not much different from what goes on today," Henry plaintively observed, eyebrows raised. "And the correct conjugation of the verb is 'begotten'."

Abe rolled his eyes. "Begat, begotten, that's not the point. Point is, are you sure that you didn't pay her a visit or two after you left that prison?" Abe asked, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

"Positive," Henry adamantly replied. "Although it would have been nice to find out that I somehow had had another child, even if it was with Nora," he added wistfully. "Who could the father have been, though?" he asked, frowning.

"Maybe it's just me but ... from what I've seen, Cynthia looks nothing like her brother, Lord Henry. He actually looks more like you." He knitted his brow. "Strange. But ... I gotta get some sleep now." He nestled more comfortably under the covers. "Night, Pops. Get the light for me?"

Henry squeezed his son's shoulder, planted a good night kiss on his forehead, and turned the lamp light off on the nightstand. As he closed the bedroom door and walked the few feet to his own bedroom, he realized that the two siblings in question did not resemble each other. Why was that? He was certain that he had not fathered any children with Nora, so why did he and the English Lord resemble each other?

A labored sigh escaped from him. Sleep was fast overtaking him as he readied for bed. After climbing in under the covers, he lay on his back with his hands under his head. He stared at the ceiling while several questions and even fewer answers presented themselves in his mind surrounding both the TV show and the two pretenders to the Morgan family heritage. Gradually closing his eyes and shifting onto his side, he welcomed the warmth of rest. All questions aside, though, he knew he was still looking at a very busy week ahead before the next broadcast.

vvvv

The whiteboard (murderboard) in the 11th Precinct's bullpen showed three of the once eight active cases solved as of 2:35 PM that afternoon, thanks to the hard work of Detectives Martinez and Hanson and MEs Morgan and Wahl. Lieutenant Reece paused as she walked by on the way to her office and proudly viewed the evidence of her team's slow but steady progress of crime solving.

 _'Ever since Morgan joined our team with his crime-solving prowess and wealth of knowledge in so many other areas, that whiteboard count has gone down considerably,'_ she thought to herself _. 'But how could a man only in his 30's have attained such a wealth of knowledge?'_ she wondered. Had he been a child prodigy? Had he been forcefed knowledge by his parents and shoved up the ladder of the educational system to become a college graduate at 12 or 13? The Lieutenant shook her head, inwardly marveling at the man's many abilities.

Quirky. Weird. Wacko. Strange. Creepy. These were just a few of the descriptors for him currently bandied about in the precinct, mostly by those who had limited contact with him, and, therefore, less respect for him.

 _'What is your story, Dr. Morgan?'_ Reece continued to stare at the whiteboard, reviewing its contents. The Senior ME's voice echoed through her mind, espousing implausible theories for CODs at first met with great skepticism but that invariably had later proven to be true. _'What is your story, Henry? Not this made up stuff out of some writer's mind for TV - the truth.'_

Her fingers once again began to twitch, stemming from a previous urge to review the doctor's arrest records for public nudity. She walked into her office and locked the door behind her; something she rarely did but she wanted to ensure complete privacy while reviewing the file she'd compiled on him against the contents of the requested box from the records room. Smiling contentedly at the file box, she seated herself and set her coffee cup down on her desk. She then opened the bottom, left drawer and pulled a slim file out of it. Laying it down on the desk in front of her, she flipped it open and searched through the reports for one with a specific date: 09/22/2014. Once found, she snatched it away from the others and returned the file to the drawer.

According to what Det. Martinez had uncovered at the time, she recalled, the good doctor had boarded the doomed subway car that morning at approximately 8:40 AM. There was no footage of either him or any of the other doomed passengers leaving that particular car. After the crash, the detective had found what had later turned out to be the doctor's blood-smeared pocket watch on the floor of the subway car. Never mind the fact that the blood on the watch matched the body of a young, Russian woman found near the watch, what had happened to the watch's owner, Dr. Morgan? If he'd been the lone survivor of that horrific crash that had claimed the lives of both the driver and his fellow passengers, why hadn't he been forthcoming with that information?

The Lieutenant carried the file box from her office to the conference room at the end of the hallway, the arrest report tucked safely in her jacket pocket. Finally alone, she closed and locked the door and broke the seal on the file box. She lifted the lid off and laid it aside. She retrieved a VHS tape from the bottom of the box and, her heart racing, popped the tape into the TV. At 08:36:24 AM the image of a man answering Henry's description checking the time on a gold pocket watch and later boarding the subway car in question eventually displayed on the screen. At 08:38:31, the windows of the approaching train caught the reflection of Henry's face as it slowed down and stopped. Reece watched through new eyes as Henry boarded the train approximately two minutes later.

When she'd watched the footage three years ago, she and her two detectives had been convinced that Henry was their man. Even though he'd later helped solve the case and identify the real perpetrator, some nagging questions back then loomed larger more than ever now. The images abruptly ended at 08:45:12, the time of impact which had also destroyed the in-car camera.

 _'If he was still on the train at the time of impact ... why wasn't he killed or, at least, gravely injured?'_ She recalled that he'd appeared to be in perfect health when Det. Martinez had questioned him.

Reece pulled the arrest report from her pocket and unfolded it. Her hands shook and she blinked several times and frowned at the time of the arrest: 08:52:58. She snatched the report down from her eyes and sat in one of the chairs, leaning her head into her hand as she struggled to comprehend the incredible but indisputable information. How in the world had he survived that crash and gotten himself arrested only minutes and miles away, naked?

"Impossible," she muttered through clenched teeth. "Utterly impossible!" she muttered, looking again at the time of arrest on the report. The scene in the show when that Henry bobbed up naked in the raging sea after having been shot and thrown overboard, came back to her.

"Died ... came back naked in the water," she said out loud, thinking of the scene in the TV show. "Died ... came back naked in the water," she repeated, this time thinking of the subway crash. "Ooohhhh, ohhhh, this can't be real!" Her voice grew gradually louder to a shout. "This CAN'T be real!" she shouted again.

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant? Everything okay in there?" Someone was knocking on the other side of the locked conference room door. They knocked louder. "Lieutenant! Is everything alright?"

"Yes!" she quickly replied, walking closer to the door but not opening it. "Everything's fine." She thought better of it and unlocked the door, opening it just enough to allow the uniformed patrolman to see her forced smile. "Sorry if I alarmed you."

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes roaming over her face, then nodded and stepped away from the door.

She closed the door and locked it again, turning around and leaning back against it. She closed her eyes and hung her head because it felt as though her lunch was going to come back up. And it had been such a nice, tasty lunch. Tuna salad with those finely chopped apple bits the way she liked it _. 'Oooohhhh, good grief!'_

vvvv

Across town, Henry and Jo sat side by side on the couch in Cynthia Morgan's apartment ignoring the proffered tea and nervously awaited her questions. Henry, more nervous than Jo, began to believe it was a huge mistake agreeing to meet with her. He abandoned the polite decorum of waiting to allow the young woman to speak first.

"Ms. Morgan, - "

"Cynthia. Please."

"Cynthia. "What exactly do you wish to learn from me?"

She laughed nervously, averting her eyes from his gaze, and replied, "I, I feel rather foolish now."

Not nearly as foolish as he felt right then, he was sure. "Perhaps if I take some of the pressure off of you and begin?" The two women simultaneously viewed him with surprise, which he chose to ignore. "You want to know of my lineage. Specifically, if I am descended from the Henry Morgan portrayed in the TV mini-series."

"Y - yes, yes," Cynthia replied, still surprised but hopeful.

"I can assure you that I am not." Even though it was the truth (because no one could be their own descendant), he still felt guilty for not divulging the entire truth to her.

"But you and your family members have spent years, decades searching for a man that you all have come to believe has managed to evade a permanent death." He realized that he had risen from his seat and had been pacing, but continued.

"Your reason for wishing to locate him is directly connected to your brother's health, is it not?" He stepped closer to an anxious Cynthia, who had risen from her seat. "What illness has befallen your brother?"

She laughed nervously and said, "Befallen. How archaic. Quaint. Oh, don't get me wrong, I rather like that kind of talk. Brings to mind carriage rides, men wearing frilly shirts, and women wearing crinoline and elaborately upswept hairdos." Her features calmed from a bright smile.

"My brother, Henry, has been diagnosed with a rare form of autoimmune inflammatory vasculitis."

"Vasculitis," Henry repeated slowly, frowning. "Characterized by inflammation and damage to the blood vessels, thought to be brought on by an autoimmune response. It also may be confined to one organ or involve several organ systems," he added. How unfortunate, he thought. A harsh disease for anyone to endure.

Cynthia nodded sadly. "He has periods both long and short where he appears to be in good health and then periods like now, where he ... appears to be at death's door." Her voice trembled on the last few words.

"When was he first diagnosed with the disease?" he asked.

She spread her hands, shaking her head. "From birth."

"I'm ... so sorry to hear that but ... since I'm no longer a practicing physician for the living - "

"That's what your detective friend told me," Cynthia interrupted, motioning to Jo. "But we're not looking for a medical remedy from you."

Henry shared a look with Jo, then turned his attention back to Cynthia.

"What are you looking for him to do, then?" Jo asked, rising to stand next to Henry.

The young woman looked back and forth between the two of them, her expectant gaze resting on Henry. "We do want you to cure him, though."

"Cure him without a medical remedy?" he asked, feigning confusion. "How were you expecting me to do that?" He didn't really want to hear what he knew to be her answer.

"Why, with your gift," she replied. She said it as if it should have been clear to them. At least to Henry.

He pursed his lips but didn't respond. It was just as he'd suspected. They'd gotten it into their heads that he was the person they'd sought for so long. That he somehow possessed the secret of long life. While he conceded that their assumptions were correct, he realized that they'd mistakenly concluded that he was able to share his condition or heal others with it. Something he'd never been able to do. No matter much he wished he could.

"Let's get to the meat of it. You asked me once ... okay, several times if I am related to the Morgan family portrayed in the TV mini-series." He paused, considering his next words. "It is possible, I grant you. But you can't actually share your brother's outlandish beliefs of someone living a longer than natural life and somehow being able to slice off little pieces of it to share with others, do you?"

"Well, of course, I ... " She suddenly broke off her reply and sat back down, realizing her facade had fallen. "I was sort of hoping. I don't know," she said and slowly raised her pleading eyes to him.

"Would it hurt for you to just meet with him and ... pretend? He may not have much time left and if he just thinks you're there to heal him, at least he could go ... peacefully, you know?"

Jo looked at Henry, not sure of what to say to him. Not even sure if she _should_ say anything to sway him one way or the other anymore. Henry slowly sucked in a deep breath and let it out, his gaze fixed with Cynthia's.

vvvv

From his vantage point behind the shop's front counter at the back of the retail floor, Abe watched his father share a quick kiss with Jo before getting out of her police car. He smiled contentedly at the sight of what anyone else would describe as two young lovebirds. He chuckled softly again, noting that it would really throw everyone else for a loop to find out that the male lovebird was almost as old as these United States of America! He uncrossed his arms and frowned at the look on his father's face, though. _'Ohhhh, no, Pops. She dumped you again?'_

Henry spotted Abe behind the counter and made his way over to him. "Hello, Abraham. How are you feeling?"

"Never mind me," he worriedly replied. "What's up with you and that long face? Jo dump you again?"

Henry sighed and shook his head. "I do wish that you would refrain from using these common slang terms to express yourself."

Abe crossed his arms again and sat back in his chair. "What can I say? I'm a product of my generation," he proudly stated.

"As am I," Henry insisted. "But no, she didn't 'dump' me." His brow slightly furrowed, he removed his scarf and top coat and hung them over his arm. "I met with Cynthia Morgan this afternoon and Jo accompanied me."

"How did it go?" Abe asked warily.

Henry walked over to the coatrack near the counter and hung his coat and scarf on it. He then turned and walked back to stand closer to Abe. "It looks as though I'll be taking a little trip back to England," he replied with an air of resignation.

"Not without me, you don't!" Abe replied and quickly stood up.

Notes: _

References to "Forever" TV show Pilot

Information about autoimmune inflammatory vasculitis found on Internet


	17. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 17

_"It looks as though I'll be taking a little trip back to England," Henry replied._

 _"Not without me, you don't!" Abe said and quickly stood up._

vvvv

"How soon are we leaving?" Abe asked.

"As soon as possible," Henry somberly replied. "Cynthia received a phone call that upset her quite a bit right before Jo and I left her apartment. Apparently, her brother isn't long for this world."

"Oh." Too bad, he thought to himself. "Well, at least we don't have to go through weeks of planning ahead to receive immunizations, passports, and travel visas. I assume that Jo has all her ducks in a row, too?"

"Yes, she does," he replied. She'd confided in him that she'd maintained a valid passport in the event that she ... they ... might fly off to Paris one day and get lost together. A soft smile tugged up at the corners of his mouth as he recalled their conversation three years ago in which he'd shared his "must-see's" in Paris with her and his suggested regimen of wandering the streets with "someone very special". Abe's voice brought him back to the present conversation.

"Might want to think about purchasing a guidebook, though, to learn more about England's customs and language."

Henry frowned, confused and just a tad insulted. "Abe, it's England. I'd like to think I already know a little bit about the customs and, certainly, the language."

Abe raised an eyebrow. "The last time you were in England was in the mid-1950's, Dad. Don't you think you should brush up just a little?"

The frown and confusion left Henry's face, replaced by amused realization. "I suppose you're right. Tomorrow, though. It's late and I need to get an early start in the morning."

"Uh, yeah, it is late, but ... I want to show you something." He walked into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. He pulled the large tome on the coffee table towards him that contained the Morgan family lineage and beckoned for Henry to join him which he did.

"Alright, Abraham, what is it you wish to show me?"

"Okay," he sighed as he began. "Remember Albert? Albert Morgan?" Henry nodded.

"Born February 1817, married a Henrietta Pennyworth in 1842. They begat six children, one of which was a daughter named Hannah, born in 1853."

Henry squeezed his eyes shut, lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to fight off his sleepiness. "This is all very interesting, Abraham, but - "

"Okay, okay. Long story short, Hannah married and had eight kids. One of her daughters married a man named Stephen Morgan." Abe smiled and sat back, eyeing his father with a raised eyebrow.

Henry frowned and sat forward a bit. "Stephen ... was this Stephen a Morgan from my family?"

"As far as I can tell, yes." Abe continued to watch a look of wonder and happiness wash over his father's face.

"Is this all leading to where I think it is?" he asked, his cheek muscles twitching, ready to bust out into an all-out broad grin.

"Certainly is. It appears that Albert's fake Morgan line connected with the real Morgan line when Hannah's daughter, Emily, married Stephen Morgan in 1871. There were a lot more marryin' and begattin' and eventually came down to Lord Henry Morgan born 1982 and his sister, Cynthia, born 1984. Of course, he wasn't born a Lord; I'll get back to you on that."

"That's incredible. Remarkable." Henry's broad grin finally overtook his features. "But once again, who was the father? Stephen Morgan's father? Explain the connection, please."

"Oh, now you want details when I'm getting sleepy myself?" Abe teased. Henry's broad grin dissolved into impatient frustration so he shared the details of his research.

"So, my brother, William, didn't die without an heir," Henry said. "Oh, so many secrets withheld, so much that I didn't know about my own family." His brow was knitted as he shook his head slightly. "He was secretly married?"

"Yes. His widow, Jane, applied for a widow's pension in 1799, for her and their son, William II. Her application included his death certificate, their marriage record, and little William's baptismal record. Found it all in something called the Royal Bounty records. And that's most likely why Lord Henry resembles you. He got some of his looks from the Perth's and some from the Morgan's. His sister probably just looks more like their mother or something." He smiled under a slight frown and looked at his father. "You really never knew about your brother's wife and child?"

"I was so preoccupied with my own life during the war, then later on with Nora, my medical practice - no. I didn't know." He pursed his lips and reviewed the information on the printed page and Abe's handwritten notes and sighed. "But by the time that I lost my mortality... what good would it have done for me to have ... I mean, establishing a relationship with any of my family during that time was simply ... out of the question." His voice grew quiet as he recalled the loneliness of his self-styled reclusion from his family and friends after having escaped from Southwark Prison in 1815.

"Do you think that you'll let Cynthia and her brother, Henry, into your small circle of confidantes?" Abe asked. What he didn't say was 'Since I'll be gone one day'.

"My level of trust extends only to you and Jo, for now, Abraham." The cloud of confusion and memories cleared from his countenance.

"Good work, Abraham. If this antiques shop business doesn't pay off for you, maybe you can find employment with the National Archives," he teased. They shared a laugh at that, embraced, and retreated to their respective bedrooms.

The next morning in the 11th Precinct's Property Room ...

Lieutenant Reece placed the file box on the counter and signed and dated the log on the "Returned" line. She was glad to get rid of it and its strange contents that pointed to their ME, Henry Morgan, somehow having the ability to cheat death most likely on a regular basis. That type of ability was almost certainly coupled with a long life. A very, very, long life. How long had this man been alive? Her thoughts were interrupted by the clerk behind the counter.

"Sorry. What did you say?"

"I asked if you found what you were looking for in that box?" The clerk, Donovan Moss, was a young patrolman about Lucas' age, assigned there after a stint in rehab for alcoholism. Before she could reply, he stated, "It's been a pretty hot item for the past few weeks. Connected to something big?"

Something big. Something big. If you only knew, she thought to herself. "Just tying up loose ends," she replied. She smiled and turned to walk away but his next words stopped her.

"You and at least those two of your detectives are pretty thorough. Nothing gets by you guys, for sure."

She turned around to face him but said nothing.

"Yeah, Det. Hanson and that Det. Martinez," he grinned. "She. Is. Hot." He suddenly remembered who it was he was addressing and looked apologetically at the Lieutenant. "Uh ... I mean ... sorry." He busied himself with the log and then with preparing the box for refiling.

Reece eyed him, amused. But she was curious. "Why are that box and its contents still here in the Property Room? After a case is closed, the evidence is usually disposed of after a year, right?"

"In some cases, but, look," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "this place ain't exactly run like it should be. Right now, for me to be assigned here is like punishment for messing up. I do my best but ... this is not where I expected to wind up after I graduated from the Police Academy, ya know what I mean? Everyone who sits behind this counter feels the same way as I do. Punishment. Sometimes tasks don't get completed on time or like they should." He shrugged.

"And now, they're hiring civilians to work in here. Most of them unvetted and lot of them untrustworthy. Why, just last month, they broke up a ring of evidence-snatching thieves in here. Not me, though; I'd never do anything like that." He glanced at the file box again, then back up at her.

"Good thing there was nothing of any real value in there or else it would have disappeared a long time ago."

"I see," she replied. "You have a nice day." Reece turned and walked out of the Property Room, heading back to her office. But she and a certain broad-shouldered detective with black hair were going to have a serious discussion.

vvvv

"Anything you wish to share with me, Detective?" Reece asked a slightly confused and nervous Mike Hanson.

"Uh ... well ... uh," he stammered out. "Share with you?" he asked, frowning and fidgeting in the chair opposite her desk.

"Yes. Apparently, you checked out a certain file box from the Property Room a few days before I did."

Realization smoothed out his frown lines and he leaned forward. He shifted his weight in the chair again and sighed. "I was just checking something out. That's all."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Lieutenant, I - " Mike sighed and pressed his lips together.

"You don't want to betray a friend. Right?"

He inhaled deeply and searched for the right words. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he finally replied, his words exhaling in a rush.

"Neither do I," she said. "But were you aware that Jo checked the same file box out from the Property Room a couple of weeks before you did? Why do you think she did that?"

"No, I, I didn't know," he replied, surprised. "Wonder what she was looking for?"

"Maybe the same thing that you and I were looking for ... and found."

Mike blanched, blinking several times. "Jo? You think she knows about the Doc? That he might be ... ?" He wasn't quite sure how to word it. That his detective partner was in love with a guy who checked in and out of the world of the living as easily as flipping a switch?

"Oh, I'm quite sure she does. Jo's a top-notch detective. When she goes looking for answers, she usually finds them. The fact that she and the doctor are still involved with each other means only one thing: she knows and she's okay with it." Reece looked Hanson directly in the eyes.

"What'll we do?" he asked.

"Have her back. And his, if necessary. It's what friends do for each other."

He nodded. "Yeah." Feeling that the discussion was over, he rose from the chair and walked over to the door. Before leaving, he turned slightly toward his boss and asked, "Exactly what did we each find out about the Doc?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked. "He's an Immortal."


	18. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 18

The bullpen of the 11th Precinct ...

Two hours ago, Hanson had left the Lieutenant's office a bit shaken by her response to his last question but undeniably excited.

 _"Exactly what did we each find out about the Doc?"_

 _"Isn't it obvious?" she asked. "He's an Immortal."_

Immortal. He vaguely recalled half stumbling, half trudging from her office and to his desk. He hoped that others in the bullpen hadn't paid attention to him and the constricted look on his face or had concluded that he and Lieu had shared some bad news on a case. Bad news, he scoffed to himself. He wasn't exactly sure if the news about their quirky ME being unable to permanently die was bad or not but it certainly wasn't adding any cheer to his day.

Having feigned working for the past two hours, he looked over at the vacant chair at Jo's desk and let out a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't have to put on a facade for her just now. It was clear to him that Lieu didn't think it was wise or necessary to let either Jo or Henry know of their findings. But he gradually became aware of someone else hovering around his desk. He looked up and focused on the sallow face of Henry's assistant, Lucas Wahl.

"Hey, Lucas. You look like you've just seen a ghost."

The usually good-natured young man, always at the ready with a quick-witted, joking return looked wanly at him, the corners of his mouth slightly turned down.

"Funny you should mention that," he quietly replied. "Because I'm not quite sure if I haven't." He then looked over his shoulders at the others in the bullpen and then back at Hanson.

"I ... need to talk to somebody." He blinked and looked over his shoulders again and back at Hanson. "First," he began, taking in several deep breaths. "I gotta - " He quickly turned and headed out of the bullpen, his long legs covering the distance out into the hallway and into the men's room beyond.

"Luc - " Just as quickly, Hanson rose from his chair and double-stepped to catch up with the younger man with the longer stride. He followed him into the men's room and waited as Lucas emptied the contents of his stomach into one of the toilets. He fidgeted and paced back and forth and was grateful that they were alone. The sound of the flushed toilet signaled, hopefully, the end of Lucas' unpleasantness. He watched with great concern as Lucas exited the stall and washed up in the face bowl.

"Man. You okay?"

Lucas snatched off a few paper towels from the holder and dried his hands and face. He straightened up and slowly took a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. He tossed the used paper towels into the trash and turned to Hanson.

"Never take in bad news on a stomach full of raw oysters." He smiled weakly as Hanson relaxed somewhat, chuckling.

"Is that what you wanted to talk about? Sounds like you should talk to an attorney if you ask me," he said, grinning.

"It's gonna sound like I need to talk to a shrink after ... after what I'm gonna say." The two men stared silently at each other as Lucas gathered up both his courage and his words. "It's about the Doc." Just at that moment, the door swung open and a uniformed patrolman walked hurriedly in past them and up to a urinal.

"C'mon," Hanson said, placing his hand on one of Lucas' shaky shoulders, "let's discuss this somewhere else." They walked out of the restroom, out of the building, and wound up in Hanson's assigned police vehicle. "How 'bout we drive over to that park near the East River? That's always peaceful. You look like you need some 'peaceful' right now."

"Not there, please. No river," he adamantly pleaded.

"Okay, okay, I'll just ... drive," Hanson replied. Before he started up the car, he turned to Lucas and said, "Look, I don't want you tell me something while I'm driving that will make me jump outta my skin and crash us. What's got you all in a tangle?" he gently but firmly demanded.

"Ran into that guy that works behind the desk in the Property Room, Officer Donovan ... "

"Yeah," Hanson nodded, "Officer Donovan something or other." Uh-oh, he suddenly thought. Property Room.

The detective listened uncomfortably as Lucas related a story of discovery practically identical to that of the Lieutenant's, Jo's, and his regarding that now infamous file box in the Property Room.

"How could he have gotten out of that subway car, sprinted over three miles, lost all his clothes ... and wound up without a scratch on him? Except for that funny GSW on his chest."

Hanson swallowed before saying anything. He could feel Lucas' eyes burning into the side of his face. "What do you think?"

"I think he died," Lucas replied in a shaky voice just above a whisper. "Died and ... came back to life in the East River ... naked. Just like the guy in the TV mini-series. Died and came back to life like you and I awake and get out of bed in the morning!"

"Lucas," Hanson replied in a not-too-convincing scoffing way, "ya really think that - "

"And not only that," Lucas interrupted, "I think he died in that taxicab that was pulled from the river around Christmas of 2014, too."

Hanson frowned, not expecting to hear that. "What makes you say that?" The events swirled around in his head again as Lucas reminded him of how Jo saw Henry get into a cab one night fully clothed and with all intentions, as far as she knew, of getting home as soon as possible to keep his elderly roommate, Abe, from worrying about him.

"It turned out that the taxicab that had picked Henry up was the same one pulled from the drink the next day. There were scratch marks on the left, rear, passenger door like someone was desperate to get out, Jo said. But no bodies were found inside or anywhere." Lucas' eyes were shifting rapidly back and forth as the words formed in his mind and left his mouth.

"It was the Doc who'd left those scratch marks," he darkly concluded. "Jo found his pocket watch the next day in the back of the cab on the floor. She questioned once why it was so wet." Lucas turned in his seat to face Hanson.

"It's because the watch shook loose from him when he had been trying to get out of the cab. He died and wound up back in the East River and got hooked again for public nudity. Again, miles away from that sunken taxicab. Nobody has ever reported seeing him walking nude _to_ the river, just emerging wet and nude _from_ it."

"Let's, uh, say that I believe you - not sayin' that I do - but let's say that I do. Why are you so upset and calling this 'news' about him bad? Why does it upset you so much?"

"Because!" Lucas closed his eyes and lowered his head, washing his hand down over his face. "I've worked with the guy for the past six years. Some of the things I've said about some of the corpses might be construed as cold and unfeeling, downright disrespectful. Especially since he can never really be one."

Hanson frowned at that last part, not sure if he wanted Lucas to continue. But he felt a need to try to put him at ease. "It's a coping mechanism," Hanson told him. "Can't let these cases, these formerly alive people, get under your skin, ya know what I mean? Best that we keep an emotional detachment for our own sanity."

Lucas shook his head, apparently rejecting that argument for the moment. "When that old guy who turned out to be the last King of Urkesh wound up on the table, I didn't hide my disgust when Henry told me that he'd known some men who remained sexually active very late in life. Gagged me out and, I don't know, he probably felt real insulted."

Hanson bit his tongue not feeling that laughter was appropriate right now while Lucas was having an emotional meltdown.

"And those jokes about the Highlander, beheading, and 'there can be only one'. Which he didn't get anyway, but still. He took it all in and didn't say a word. Nothing. Some of my stupid jokes had to have hurt him or made him feel uncomfortable." He let out a loud sigh. "Feel like such a jerk."

"Don't beat yourself up," Hanson urged him. "You're not the one who gave the speedo gear to him as a joke after he'd been caught skinny dipping again." He caught himself, remembering that it was right before they'd found the sunken taxicab.

"Geez," he muttered, feeling a sharp jab of guilt, realizing that Henry had actually died the night before. "Yeah, he took it all in. Didn't say a word. Geez."

Recalling that Henry's roommate, Abe, had always been the one to bail him out after an arrest, he wondered if Abe had also managed to pick Henry up from the river at other times, helping him to avoid arrest. There was only one answer: yes. Because Abe knows Henry's secret, too! Those two! All this time, right under their noses! He wondered how the two secretive men had even met and how long ago. Abe. He looked twice Henry's age. Was he Henry's father? Was he an Immortal, too? He'd sure like to get some answers out of him.

"I, I just wanna apologize and give the Big Guy a hug," Lucas groaned.

Hanson stifled another laugh, tabling his thoughts about Abe and said, "Look, I really got nothing coming across my desk right now, so let's get an early start on drowning our mutual guilt at our local watering hole."

"Okay," Lucas sighed. "Not like anybody'd miss me if I took off early." As Hanson started up the car and backed out of the parking space, Lucas asked if they should tell Henry or Jo that they now knew his secret.

"No. Lieu says no. I don't know when but ... not yet."

vvvv

Across the pond ...

The main dining hall and kitchen of the 23-room Trillingham Manor were alive with both people and activity despite the fact that 11 of the rooms in the immense home had been closed off for more than 15 years. But it still left enough bedrooms and their connected, private baths, to easily accommodate three, expected guests from America. There hadn't been this much excitement and preparations going on in the manor since the BBC and its camera crew had commandeered it earlier that year.

The butler/house manager, Reginald Steadham, a short, wiry, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man in his late 70's, had been in the family's employ since his youth, having stepped into the butler position 28 years ago behind his father and grandfather before him. He walked briskly out of the dining hall and headed toward the front door, intent upon overseeing the progress of the landscapers and the hostlers in the stable. He stopped dead in his tracks when something on the spiral staircase caught his eye.

"Hen - Your Lordship!" He scurried over to Lord Henry, who'd managed to limp down two-thirds of the way, as quickly as his septuagenarian legs could carry him. "You shouldn't be up and about," he barely whispered. "Why didn't you summon me or the nurse to aid you?"

The feeble young man smiled weakly and shooed him back with a wave of his hand. "I'm not an invalid," he replied, indignant. "Even though everyone insists on treating me as such." Taking a much-needed breath, he stopped when he reached the landing and stood with one hand on the balled end of the banister while supporting his weight on a cane with the other.

"We must not overlook anything in preparing for our guests." He breathed in and out lustily.

"Especially for the one, special guest?" Steadham asked knowingly.

"Especially for him," he replied. Looking around at the expansive entranceway, his eyes finally rested on the open doors of the library and the French doors beyond. His eyes lit up and he dipped his head in their direction.

"Take me outside ... into the garden." He began to slowly walk toward the library, leaning heavily on the cane as he moved and the butler hovering close by. A playful scowl took over his face as he chastised the older man. "I'm fine, Steadham, don't smother me!" He waved his hand at him again in an effort to gain distance between them.

"Your Lordship, the doctors have _repeatedly_ told you that this type of activity should be avoided." Steadham silenced himself at the stern look his employer gave him. He then turned and walked over to open the doors to the library wider. As the young man passed by him and entered the library, Steadham shook his head and continued to shadow him as he slowly made his way to the French doors that led to the patio and garden.

"But you are your father's son," he reluctantly observed. "Just as stubborn and just as hard willed as he was." The old servant fondly recalled the young man's and his sister's late parents. A young couple who'd died too soon, leaving two small children to his charge instead of to a governess or family member.

 _Twenty-eight years earlier ..._

 _"Why me? I've no wife, no experience rearing children," a dumbfounded, 49-year-old Steadham asked the Executrix of the deceased couple's estate._

 _"Because they trusted you and believed that their son and daughter will be reared with love, as well as discipline," the Executrix replied._

Present day ...

Even though the couple's son, Henry, had been born with some serious medical issues, the butler had always felt a bit of guilt, that he hadn't done enough, as he'd watched over the boy's growth to manhood plagued with one ailment after the other. The young man's voice broke into his remembrances.

"Such insolence! Please remind me why I keep you in my employ, Steadham."

Steadham walked quickly ahead of him and opened the French doors and stepped out onto the patio. Fluffing up the pillows on the patio lounge, readying it for the young man, he replied matter-of-factly, "Because you need me."

He straightened up and stepped back slightly to allow the young man to seat himself. He steeled himself and looked away; a lump forming in his throat, preferring not to watch him struggle valiantly to seat himself with dignity. Once he was settled, Steadham blinked away the sting from his eyes and cleared his throat.

"And I'm the only one who can put up with your bullying and whiny ways and not trounce you," Steadham added defiantly.

Lord Henry's broad grin spread across his face, although he tried hard to prevent it. He looked up at his long trusted friend and shook his head, still grinning. "True. True."

Steadham swallowed the lump in his throat and bent down slightly to quietly ask, "Tea, Your Lordship?" Lord Henry nodded in the affirmative. Steadham turned and headed toward the kitchen.

"Steadham ... Uncle Reggie ... you'll sit with me a while, won't you?"

"With pleasure, my boy."

Notes:

Sap-pyyyy. Anybody crying? omg.

References to Forever TV show S01/E11 "Skinny Dipper" and E15 "The King of Columbus Circle".***


	19. Episode 5A - The Morgan Chronicles Ch 19

"I can't believe we're actually on our way," Jo gushed, beaming. "Tomorrow morning, whoosh! Off to London!"

"Mmm, helped that we had our passports and everything already in order," Abe noted. He glanced over his shoulder to see Jo and his father smiling at each other. He smiled approvingly and turned back to stirring the pot of soup on the stove.

"Smells great, Abe," Jo said.

"Minestrone?" Henry asked, taking in a deep whiff.

"Yeah," he replied. "My own recipe. It's ready." The soup was ladled into their bowls and they all sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy it and the french bread, salad, and wine. Afterwards, Abe was generously complimented by Henry and Jo for the meal.

"Jo and I will clean up, son." Henry paused suddenly, as did the other two, because of how he'd just addressed Abe. The word 'son' had automatically rolled off his tongue and it felt good - very good - to be able to be himself, just a bit, in these moments.

"You go get your rest. Early start tomorrow morning, remember?"

Abe nodded, smiling, and said goodnight. Jo watched him leave the kitchen then began helping Henry with the cleanup.

"Excited?" she asked.

He paused, thinking before replying. "Hadn't thought about it that way, to be honest with you. They're expecting me to be able to lift the young man out of his physical quagmire. At least, he's expecting me to."

"Cynthia said she just wants you to help ease him into his ... last moments," Jo quietly reminded him.

He sighed, drying the last of the dishes and placing them in the cupboard. "Yes. I'm supposed to find the right words to do just that. Frankly, I have no idea what I'll say to him, Jo." They dried their hands and placed the towel back on the ring, then walked with their arms around each other's waists into the sitting room and seated themselves on the sofa.

"You'll figure out what to say to him, Henry." She placed a soft kiss on his cheek and patted the cushion on the sofa. "So, bring me a blanket and a pillow?"

He stood up and paused before leaving to retrieve the bedding. He turned and looked down at her. "I do wish that you'd reconsider and let me sleep here, you take my bed. It's much more comfortable than this seating."

She lowered her eyes and replied, "Thank you, but this will be perfectly fine."

He nodded, pursing his lips, and knew it was useless to argue with her once she'd made her mind up. Shoving his hands down into his pockets, he left the room, returning a few minutes later with a pillow and thick comforter. They shared a goodnight kiss and he retreated to his bedroom to prepare for bed. She did likewise in the sitting room, snuggling under the thick, warm comforter and drifting off into dreams of flying high above the clouds in an invisible plane, hand-in-hand with Henry.

vvvv

Heathrow Airport, the next day ...

The deliciously familiar smell of Starbucks™ coffee welcomed Jo, Henry, and Abe as they followed the limousine driver out of Terminal 5. The international flight was Jo's first ever and had lasted more than seven hours. Henry had insisted on flying first class, she had insisted on coach.

 _"Your first international flight, Jo. Make it a memorable one," he'd earnestly urged her even though most of his commercial flying hours had occurred while fleeing one location for another and had been in coach; once as a flight attendant. But those were stories for another time, he'd told her._

 _"You two figure it out," Abe had told them. "First class all the way for me - I deserve it."_

The three travelers finally reached the limousine, luxuriously appointed with a wet bar; red, velvet seat covers; intercom; and a stereo system that piped in the muted tones from a radio station. The trio conversed about their flight and what they might expect from their host once they reached the manor. Eventually, the conversation turned to Jo's and Henry's three colleagues left behind in New York.

"Apparently, Lieu's husband works for the Mayor and is a personal friend of someone who works in the Mayor's Office of Media and Entertainment. This same friend is dating the daughter of the British Ambassador. Joanna's husband was at a late meeting this past week and the subject of the mini-series came up," Jo shared with them.

Both men's eyebrows raised. "Interesting," Henry remarked.

Jo continued. "Somebody came up with the bright idea that it would be good for public relations if some New York officials paid a visit to London to reach out to the living descendants of the real-life family depicted in the show." Abe let out a quick snorty laugh while Henry rolled his eyes and shook his head. "With you, Henry, acting as some kind of liaison," she added.

"Well, fortunately, calmer heads prevailed and that idea was promptly put to rest," Henry said.

"Mike and Lieu can handle the separation but I'll bet Lucas is crying into his beer right now. He's missing his bossy wossy," she teased, pinching Henry's cheek. He rolled his eyes again, half-grinning, while Jo and Abe had a good, snorty laugh. They soon watched in awed silence as the limousine made its way past a gated entry with iron and stone pillars. Abe counted at least 15 or more landscapers as they pruned and trimmed the elaborately-shaped greenery.

"Whew," he whistled softly, "look at this place. How's it feel to be back in the lap of luxury, Pops? I could get used to this, believe you me."

"Hmmm," his father replied with a slight smile. "And what about Fawn?"

Abe made a snorting sound, this time a mirthless one. "There you go. Pulling my head out of the clouds again." He chuckled a bit to himself. "You're right, though, Pops. I don't wanna be too far from her. This place is good for a visit, though. Man, is it ever good for a visit!" This time Jo and Henry shared a good, snorty laugh.

The limousine approached the end of the long, cemented driveway and stopped in front of the impressive residence. As they exited the luxury conveyance, the chauffeur and two other servants saw to their luggage. The three were greeted at the already open door by the butler, Steadham, who informed them that their host sent his apologies for not greeting them personally but would join them later for dinner. He then offered to show them to their rooms. Jo and Abe followed him up the staircase but Henry lingered in the middle of the expansive entryway.

"Such good times were had here in this house." He looked wistfully up and around him as he murmured the words but they were loud enough to have reached the ears of Steadham and the others.

"I beg your pardon, Sir?" Steadham asked, a look of slight confusion on his face.

"This, uh, lovely manor," Henry replied, catching himself. "I'm sure there were good times had here." He smiled self-consciously and caught up with the others.

The dutiful butler studied him for a moment, then nodded. "And we still manage. This way to your rooms," he instructed and ascended the stairs ahead of them while they followed.

Once inside their respective rooms, they each tested their beds and rested a bit before showering and changing clothes. Abe was the first to emerge by knocking on the door that adjoined his suite to Henry's.

"Come in, Abraham," Henry called out while adjusting his tie in the mirror. Abe opened the door and came into the room, looking around.

"How'd you know it was me? Coulda been Jo."

"Then the knock would have come from behind me, not from my left." He continued checking his reflection in the mirror, giving his curly brown waves another brush over.

"Uh, okay. Hey, her room's across the hall."

"Yes, I know." Henry turned around and looked toward the door to his suite and sighed wistfully.

"Look, Pops, I can trade rooms with her if you want," Abe offered, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows.

Henry smiled, blushing a bit. "No, Abraham, that won't be necessary. It's just that ... that room was once a playroom for my sisters." His eyes glazed over at the memory.

"Elizabeth, Sarah. Being in this house sort of brings them back to me. Brings them all back to me." He looked at Abe, frowning a bit. "Does that make any sense?"

Abe placed a hand on his father's arm. "It makes perfect sense, Pops."

They were shortly informed that dinner was served. Abe was suddenly nervous about his appearance but Henry assured him that he was properly attired. When they stepped into the hallway, Jo opened her door, stunning both men with her loveliness. She wore a black, slim-fitting, off-the-shoulder dress with allover lace and a back lace-up closure. Rhinestones decorated the upper bodice and short, lacy, bands for the sleeves. Her hair was parted on the left and loosely swept to the right, her brown tresses falling over her right shoulder.

"It was hanging in the closet with a sweet note from Cynthia attached. It's called the Mermaid dress," she told them, stepping out into the hall and closing the door. "Like in the animated Disney movie." She smiled brightly and spun around, holding onto the sides of the ankle-length skirt.

"More like in a dream," Henry's voice rumbled deep and low. "You look lovely."

"Thank you. You look handsomely elegant, as usual." They stood and smiled at each other, taking each other in for a moment.

Feeling a bit left out, Abe jokingly told himself, "Oh, hi, Abe. Don't you look cute." Henry and Jo both feigned embarrassment for having 'ignored' him and made an elaborate fuss over his appearance. He pretended to be consoled and they laughingly left to join the others in the dining room.

vvvv

Lord Henry wiped his mouth with his napkin after the sumptuous meal of beef wellington, escarole and orange salad with green olive vinaigrette, potatoes lyonnaise, and dark chocolate mousse for dessert. He then happily announced that tea and coffee would be served in the entertainment room.

"The man-cave, as you Yanks call it," he said with a wide grin. "We're going to watch the latest episode of 'The Morgan Chronicles'. Normally, it would air tomorrow night here, but I have the entire series on tape. A gift from the show's production staff."

His sister, Cynthia, a late arrival, exchanged a worried look with Steadham but neither said a word. Henry noticed the exchange and their obvious concern only added to his own. His physician's eye had watched his namesake all during the meal and he'd wondered how much longer the young man could hold up given his weakened physical condition.

 _'Most likely an extra dosage of one or more medications allowing him to have both extra energy and an increased appetite,' Henry speculated._

Although it was just an educated guess about the overmedicating, Henry deferred to the judgment of his host's sister and butler and chose not to voice his concerns, at least for the moment.

vvvv

The group settled into the "man-cave" with stadium seating of dark leather recliners connected in groups of three, four, and five on the three levels. Two wall lamps of brass with white globes adorned the walls of polished oak on either side of the seating. Stylish lighting recessed into the stairs' risers and a white-gold ceiling in a circular pattern with oak trim. At the center was the black, overhead projector aimed at an 8-foot wide, 2.4-foot high screen.

Henry, Jo, and Abe occupied the first row of seats in that order and the two Morgan siblings sat in seats on the second level. The lighting dimmed and the fifth installment of the mini-series began to play across the wide screen.

"Last on 'The Morgan Chronicles'," the off-screen narration informed the viewers. Snippets of scenes from Episode 4 showed that Henry's 1814 death and apparently naked resurrection in the stormy sea. The slave, Osa, recovering a key dropped from that Henry's hand as some crew members carried his dying body past their holding pen. That Henry's happy reunion with wife, Nora, in 1815, and subsequent commitment to an asylum. His mysterious escape from prison in 1816 and his cellmate, Fr. Sullivan, being grilled by prison officials. All paving the way to the opening scene of the latest episode.

February 1838 was displayed on the screen. The scene was a gala celebration in the grand home of Mrs. Sarah Morgan Thomas in honor of the 21st birthday of her young nephew, Albert Morgan. He was dressed in the fashionable style of the day for men. A dark, flared frock-coat with a low, tightly-cinched waist and rounded chest, a waistcoat, and tight, white trousers that gave him a rather hour-glass figure inspired by Prince Albert. A necktie was tied around his high, upstanding collar. His long, flaxen hair was worn swept to the side but other than side-burns, he sported the clean-shaven look without the popular mustache worn by other men of the day.

Albert stood near the open patio doors and gazed disinterestedly at couples whirling across the floor to a waltz played by a string quartet. Sipping squash from a cup cut from French crystal, he turned and walked out onto the patio and breathed in the night air. Looking up at the stars in the night sky, he lifted his cup and mockingly toasted the stars.

"Twenty-one. Happy coming of age to me," he scoffed and downed the rest of the punch.

"So you've abandoned your guests to commune with the stars?"

He smiled warmly at the familiar sound of the older woman's voice as she approached from behind and stood close to him.

"Aunt Sarah."

She stepped closer and laid her hand on the side of his arm. "What is this melancholy that has fallen upon you?"

He looked upward again at the stars and sighed. "Mother." He turned to face his aunt and with bitterness lacing his words, said, "We couldn't have the party in our own home. 'No time for celebrations'," he sarcastically quoted her. "And besides hosting this celebration for me in your home, are you also to present me with the key to your house?"

"Albert," she replied, "you are and always have been welcome in this house. Key or no key," she emphasized.

"The party should have been held in our own home. The key should have been presented to me by her." He closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. "I suppose it matters not that I receive a key to signify that I'm now a man and can come and go as I please. The house key has been in my possession for the past ten years. Not that she would have ever noticed. All she does is write in that cursed diary of hers about how much she misses a ghost!"

"Albert, your father - "

"Is a man who abandoned us years ago!" Seething with anger, Albert clenched his teeth and quickly stepped a few paces away from her. "People still write to her to report that they've seen him. Spain. France. Norway. Even in Egypt. Can you imagine that? He jaunts around the world while my mother hides away in her memories. She holds fast to this unshakeable fantasy that he's still alive."

"We don't know for sure that he's not still alive," she countered. "After what he went through in the asylum and later in the prison before his escape," she paused, shuddering, "it's understandable that he would want to ... be away for a while."

"A while?" he laughed, mirthlessly. "It's been over 20 years," he hissed. "If he is alive somewhere, why does he choose to stay away from us? He's an old man by now. Or, at least, he should be."

"What do you mean, he should be?"

"Aunt Sarah ... the reports, the letters she's received, are always the same. They describe a man in his 30's, dark hair, a face and body of a man too young to be my father, Henry Morgan, but ... "

"I don't know what to tell you about your mother, Albert. She has never listened to reason. The man or men that these people claim to have seen can't possibly be your father. But - "

"But what? The old fool will never come back. He doesn't want us."

His aunt eyed him sympathetically. "I understand that you're still angry because he's never been here for you, but I know that he would have been if he could have."

"Oh, I'm certain that he would have," Albert facetiously agreed.

"I know my brother," she quickly replied. "He's a good man with a good heart. If he had known about you, he would have been here. But for some unknown reason, he's chosen to remove himself from our lives. Not because he wants to but because he has to."

The scene advanced to the year 1853, a small, picturesque village called Roquebrun in the south of France. Albert Morgan's wife of 11 years, the former Henrietta Pennyworth, was in labor with their sixth child. But something was wrong; terribly wrong. As she lay on the bed drenched with perspiration, grimacing and moaning, she clutched the bed covers and released them periodically as the contractions reached their peaks and valleys.

"Where is the doctor?" Albert asked anxiously under his breath. He was alone outside their bedroom, frantically pacing to the end of the hallway and running his hands through his hair. "Where. Is. He?" he repeated. At the sight of his manservant, Brimley, hurrying toward the bedroom with a slender, mustachioed man clutching a medical bag in his wake, he sprinted back down the hall to meet them.

"Doctor," he breathlessly greeted him. "My wife ... the baby's coming a month too soon. Is there anything you can do to, to stop it?"

The dark-haired physician's eyes met his. With great compassion and conviction, he replied, "I'll do all I can to help them. Try not to worry." His smile left his face as quickly as it had appeared and he entered the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Albert sighed and continued to pace. A little more than two hours later, he heard the first cries of their sixth child and youngest daughter. He eagerly knocked on the door and the doctor, smiling, opened it and let him in.

"Come and meet your new daughter," he said. Albert rushed in and joined his wife and baby.

Eyes glistening with happy tears, Henrietta said, "She's beautiful. The doctor says she's perfectly healthy. We'll name her Nora after your mother."

Albert's broad smile flattened out. "No. Hannah. After your mother." His smile returned and he kissed and embraced his two, beautiful girls, as he called them.

The doctor had been washing up in a basin of water but froze when he heard that the mother of the baby's father was named Nora. Rolling down his sleeves and buttoning the cuffs, he trained his frown to smooth out although his hands shook as he put his top coat on and buttoned it up. He made sure that all of his instruments were in his medical bag before closing it and grasping the handle with his left hand. His movements caught the eye of Albert.

"Doctor ... ?"

"Martin (Mar-teen). Henri Martin."

Both Jo and Abe stole glances at Henry to see how he was dealing with these emotion-rich scenes. He was aware of them eyeing him, but he was remembering how it had been only the second time in those first 40 years of immortality that he'd used an alias while laying low and outliving someone who'd grown suspicious of his non-aging. But he'd inwardly cringed at the lie and had worked hard to avoid looking directly at the man who might be his son and the newborn who might be his granddaughter. He recalled how just a few moments earlier he had held her and placed her in the arms of her mother. Those moments would be indelibly imprinted on his hands and in his memory. But he knew at the time that he could never reveal his identity to them. They wouldn't have understood. They simply wouldn't have understood.

"Thank you, Dr. Martin," Albert gratefully told him. Henrietta raised her eyes from her baby long enough to smile and nod in agreement.

"You're quite welcome," he replied, doing his best to hide his Welsh accent under a faux French accent. "Enjoy your family." He then headed for the door.

Albert quickly rose from his wife's bedside. "How much do we owe you, Doctor?"

"Not to worry. I'll send you my bill." The two men nodded to each other and the doctor left the room.

Two weeks later, Albert dispatched Brimley to pay the doctor since he had not received his bill yet. Brimley reached the doctor's small cottage overlooking the valley but found it empty and abandoned days earlier. He reported back to Albert that the doctor was nowhere to be found in the village. For the better part of a year, Albert searched for the mysterious medical man without success and he eventually abandoned the effort, turning his full attention back to his family and prospered from his vineyard. The two men never saw each other again. Albert died in his sleep at the age of 92 in the year 1909 surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, believing to the end that he was the son of Henry Morgan.

Thankfully, the usually numerous commercials had been eliminated from the tape but it was now paused before the next scene in order to provide a relief period for the small group of viewers. The lights came on again and Henry, Jo, and Abe stood up to stretch their legs and take advantage of the short break. The opening scenes of the latest episode had disturbed him. Greatly. Even though he was certain that he had fathered no child with Nora, he had failed to consider that the child, Albert, would have been raised to believe he was his father. And be angry and upset over his absence. An absence that would have been equated with neglect and abandonment. Was Albert's feelings of abandonment and anger another revelation concerning his past or just another example of show business razzle dazzle to keep viewers interested enough to keep tuning in?

On the way out of the room, Henry paused on the first landing and stood near Lord Henry where he was seated. They nodded to each other, both smiling slightly as Jo, Abe, and Cynthia left the room.

"Your Lordship, I don't mean to sound ungrateful; you have been a most gracious host but ... it was my understanding that you had very specific reasons for summoning me here. Exactly when had you planned for us to discuss those reasons?"

He laughed softly. "You mean when had I planned to ask you to work your 'magic' on me." He replied before Henry could respond that he had no 'magic'.

"Tomorrow," Lord Henry replied. "Tomorrow."

vvvv

Notes: Information on fashion, clothing, and birthday/coming-of-age celebrations found on the Internet.


	20. Episode 5B - The Morgan Chronicles Ch 20

_"Your Lordship ... when had you planned for us to discuss those reasons?"_

 _"You mean when had I planned to ask you to work your 'magic' on me. Tomorrow," Lord Henry replied. "Tomorrow."_

vvvv

Jo and Abe retook their seats in the entertainment room after a 15-minute break to relieve themselves and for Henry and Lord Henry to converse for a few minutes. Jo looked at Henry's empty seat and turned to Abe to ask him where he was.

"Well, we passed each other when I came out of the bathroom and he was going in." Abe looked over his shoulder at the doorway then back at Jo, then faced front.

"Maybe he and little Henry had more to discuss than he thought they would."

Jo frowned at the disrespectful reference to their host. "Little ... Henry ... really?" Abe shrugged and side-eyed her. She rolled her eyes and looked around. Lowering her voice, she asked, "You mean, he's attending to Lord Henry now?"

Abe looked over his shoulder again and saw that they were alone. "I don't know, Jo. According to Henry, whatever's gonna happen will happen tomorrow." Jo rose from her seat and started to walk out.

"Where are you going?" Abe asked.

"It was a long flight, Abe," she replied, sighing. "I don't know about you but my pillow is calling me. And why are you so perky?" she playfully demanded.

"Because I slept during the entire flight. I'm gonna stay and see the rest of the episode." He turned to face the screen again. "Fill you in tomorrow, sleepy head." He turned a smiling face to her one last time before she, smiling back, headed off to her bedroom.

After a few moments, Abe called out loudly, "Looks like it's just me, so, could you, uh, start the tape again, please?" The lights dimmed again and the activity on the screen resumed. "Thank you," he called out again to whom, he knew not.

"You're welcome," Cynthia's voice rang out as she took the seat next to him that Jo had just vacated.

"Oh, hey," he chuckled at her. "Nice to see ya."

She snuggled into the seat grinning broadly at him. "Just you and me, looks like."

"Uh ... how's your Henry?" Abe asked softly. He took his eyes off the screen to look at her. She grinned not so broadly now.

"He puts up a good front," she said quietly. "And he was so excited when he learned that you three were popping over for a visit. But he ... pushes himself too far sometimes. Your Henry is with him now. Just to make sure that he gets to his sleep in comfort."

"You mean ... ?" Abe asked, a troubled, sympathetic look on his face.

"No, no," she chortled. "Off to beddy-bye. That's all." Something on the screen caught their attention at the same time and they both remained silent for the rest of the scene.

The date that had been displayed on the screen, November 29, 1888, faded out. What had caught their attention was a woman's blood-curdling scream. The camera focused on her terror-filled eyes as she stood in an open doorway of a room and screamed. The woman, dressed as a maid, turned and ran into the hallway and down the stairs, wailing for a Mr. Bennington. The camera followed behind the frenzied woman as she ran up to and abruptly stopped in front of a tall, balding, bespectacled man in his early 50's. She frantically explained to him the horrible scene she'd encountered in an upstairs bedroom. He leaned down, frowning, and listened intently as her tale of terror spun from her.

"Oh, it's just horrible, just horrible!" she exclaimed with arms raised and features contorted.

"Take me there, at once," he demanded. "Well?" he demanded again of the maid who was obviously reluctant to return to the upstairs room.

"Oh, I can't, Mr. Bennington, I can't, it's too horrible a scene. Please don't make me!" she pleaded and swayed, nearly fainting. Bennington caught her and held her up until two other maids he motioned over, could tend to her.

"See to her," he briskly instructed them and ran up the stairs and into the room the maid had refused to reenter. The room turned out to be the playroom of his employers' children. Standing near the 'scene of horror' was their 13-year-old daughter, Mariah. He visibly relaxed and heaved a deep sigh of weary frustration as he slowly approached the young girl with his hands clasped behind his back and a knowing look on his face. He stood looking down at her in an attempt to intimidate her.

"Miss Mariah. Exactly what is going on here?"

The pretty, brown-eyed girl smoothed down the back of her long, auburn hair then lifted her eyes reluctantly to the tall groomsman. "My hospital. My patients," she stated simply and pressed her lips together, jutting her chin out defiantly.

He cleared his throat and bent down for a closer look at the 'patients', actually dolls. He adjusted his spectacles with one hand and gingerly touched the 'blood' on one of the 'gown' of one of the dolls.

"Interesting," he said, licking the red smear off of his finger. "Strawberry preserves." He gave her an incriminating stare but struggled to tame the smile muscles in his face. He turned and followed her as she marched away from him and flopped down into a Louis XV chair and folded her arms.

"It's important for me to practice. One day I will be a doctor." She unfolded her arms and looked up at him, her anger stemmed somewhat. "One of the first women doctors, that's what I want to be."

"Everyone knows that," he said.

"But no one believes it!" she shouted. "I'll show them," she grumbled and folded her arms again, shoving herself against the back of the chair.

"Do you realize, Miss Mariah, that you nearly gave the poor maid, Laura, a heart attack with this ... display?" he asked, motioning towards the dolls smeared in different spots with the blood-looking juice from the preserves.

"Their wounds had to look authentic," she explained unapologetically.

"Looks rather morbid," he muttered in reply. "I suggest that before your parents arrive back home, you - discharge all of your 'patients', clean up your 'hospital' and return the remainder of the preserves to the pantry."

She stood up and smoothed down the front of her pink, floral print dress. "They'll know it's been had at," she said.

He frowned slightly, thinking before replying, and moved closer to her, his hands clasped once again behind his back. "Then we'll supply a plausible reason as to why the jar is no longer full."

She smiled up at him. "Really?"

He smiled back. "There are some of us who do believe in you, Miss Mariah. And we're all too happy to be of help along the way. But ... I can't help but wonder why you chose to cover your, eh, 'patients' in such goriness?"

"Because!" she replied excitedly and scurried over to a table in her 'hospital' and retrieved a newspaper and hurriedly brought it back to show him. "I want to be like the doctor helping the police with the Whitechapel murders. His name is Henry Morgan. Think he's related to the Morgan family?" Her broad grin was infectious but he managed to maintain a calm countenance.

He took the paper from her and studied the drawings of the crime scene and that of a young, mustachioed physician recently employed by the police to provide more insight about the killer such as his physical size, age, and suspected motive.

"I have no idea if he's related to them. But this is hardly the approved reading for a child of your age." He folded the paper and held it behind his back. "You must get about with your cleaning." He turned to leave the room and paused, looking over his shoulder at her. "Dr. Mariah Stevenson," he said with a smile. "Has a nice ring to it."-

"Mariah Stevenson-Morgan. My 6 times great-grandmother," Cynthia announced proudly. Mmmm, a woman after my own heart," she purred. "You know, I once thought about becoming a doctor? That is, until I found out that I can't stand the sight of blood," she lamented.

Abe's response was a deep, reverberating snore. Cynthia chuckled and shook him gently into a sleepy awakeness. "Oh! Sorry," he said, looking around, blinking. "Show's over?"

She chuckled again. "It is for you. Come on," she told him, helping him up. "Let's get you off to beddy-bye, too." He rubbed his eyes and allowed her to guide him from behind up the three steps and out of the room, all the while asking what he'd missed. She promised to fill him in on things in the morning. She shut down the projection equipment and the lights and caught up to Abe and helped him up to his room.

vvvv

Earlier, when Jo had left the entertainment room and headed up to her bedroom, she saw Henry emerge from Lord Henry's bedroom at the end of the hallway, a thoughtful but grim look on his face. She bit her lower lip and approached him as he drew closer to his own bedroom. He eventually noticed her and his features smoothed out into a welcoming smile. He leaned against his door and faced her as she leaned against the wall next to the door.

"You look sleepy," he told her.

"You look tired. Beat." She glanced at Lord Henry's closed door and back at Henry, concern written all over her face. "Is he ... he's not gonna make it, is he?"

"He's, ah, he's ... no. No, he's not," he sighed, resignedly lowering his gaze from hers. "Jo, I barely know him but I feel so attached to him." He looked at her, frowning. "Why?" he asked her.

"Because you're his great-great-great-great-great-great," she laughed, "I don't know how many times great-grand-uncle," she continued with him laughing along with her. "It's in your blood, Henry. You're just that kinda guy. You can't help but love him. And Cynthia. Just as surely as you love your son."

"Yes. Yes. I'm sure that's true." He lifted her hand up and pressed his lips onto the back of it. "Get some sleep, Jo."

She nodded and said, "See you in the morning?"

"I'm afraid not." He looked down the hallway behind him. "Lord Henry and I have an appointment." He turned to face her again. She nodded knowingly and softly caressed his cheek. They each retired to their respective bedrooms and wondered what the morning would bring ... for all of them.


	21. Episode 5C - The Morgan Chronicles Ch 21

Back in New York City ...

New York is five hours behind London, timewise, and when the latest episode of "The Morgan Chronicles" had aired later on that evening, three particular residents, armed with new and confounding information concerning Henry and his strange life, had been glued to their TV screens with renewed interest as the story had continued. The scenes surrounding Nora's son, Albert, had moved each of them; especially the part that had shown the actor portraying Henry, mustachioed but unaged, actually meeting Albert and his wife, Henrietta, and delivering his own granddaughter, Hannah, in 1838. But neither Lt. Reece, Mike, or Lucas had any reason to believe that Albert was not Henry's son for they weren't privy to Abe's research on his and Henry's family tree.

They'd watched the doctor/Henry in the teleplay freezing up with widened eyes when he'd heard Nora's name discussed by the newborn's parents. They could only imagine what must have gone through his mind at that time. And how painful it must have been for him to not only suspect that he was related to the couple and their newborn daughter but be forced not to pursue the relationship out of fear of discovery.

They'd wondered where he'd gone when Albert's manservant, Brimley, had been sent to pay him for his services but had found only a hastily exited domicile. They'd tried to put themselves in his shoes and live just that part of his impossible life but couldn't. They just couldn't imagine being like him, let alone dealing with what must have been just one of the countless painful moments in his long life.

And what in the world were they going to do when Henry returned to New York? Conceal their newfound knowledge of his immortality for fear that he would suddenly leave like in the teleplay and possibly never be heard from again? Or come clean with him and do their best to convince him to stay? Convince him that they can be trusted because they're his friends and want only to help him to keep his secret? What to do, what to do?

Thankfully, the scene with the young girl, Mariah, had brought an unexpected and much-needed smile to their faces. Seeing the juice from strawberry preserves smeared onto her dolls as a substitute for blood was both macabre and hilarious at the same time. Finding out that it was one of her self-styled exercises in preparation for her future medical career was priceless. They'd imagined how earnest Henry must have been in his early years knowing that he'd wanted to someday become a doctor. Had he been as passionate? Had he been as imaginative, as determined? They could only assume that he had been, for he had repeatedly demonstrated to them in the short time they'd known him that he was a professional in every sense of the word but more than willing to think outside the box in order to solve a case.

Unlike the small group that had had their viewing time interrupted over in Trillingham Manor, Reece, Mike, and Lucas had been able to view the latest episode in its entirety, including the final scenes.

The year and place displayed on the TV screen were 1897, London. A now 22-year-old Mariah Stevenson raced up a staircase and down the hall of the London School of Medicine for Women. Clutching several books to her chest in one hand and keeping her long dress and several petticoats raised up with the other so as not to trip over them, she finally scooted into a lecture hall behind a few other stragglers just as the door was closed and locked. Breathlessly sliding into one of the seats and trying to look inconspicuous because of her late arrival, she managed to calm down and whip out her notepad and pencil.

Purely by coincidence, she had sat next to Genevieve Le Blanc, a French-Canadian woman whose family so bitterly opposed her dream of becoming a doctor that she'd fled Canada in order to study in London. The two young women had first met when Mariah patronized a local music store where Genevieve lived and worked part-time in order to support herself and her studies. They'd become fast friends almost from the beginning. They and their fellow students eagerly sat through their instructor's lengthy introduction of a guest lecturer, a man who sat patiently, if not nervously, in a chair next to the instructor's desk with a small, brown leather journal on his lap.

"Without further ado," the instructor, Mary Biggs, announced, "Dr. Henry Morgan." She smiled brightly over her shoulder at him and relinquished the floor to him amidst polite, scattered applause. Mariah sat forward in her seat, anxious for the man to impart his wisdom to them.

He smiled politely and thanked Instructor Biggs as he placed the journal on the lectern and opened it to a certain page. He then gripped the side of the lectern with one hand, the other pressed lightly on the page of the journal to keep his place. He then looked up at the students and for the next two hours, expounded on his experiences in the new field of forensic pathology that he was credited with helping to pioneer. From time to time, the well-groomed, dark-haired, mustachioed man with the interesting eyes and impeccable dress consulted his journal notes as he held the rapt attention of his audience albeit through occasional grimaces and groans from them whenever crime scenes were described.

Genevieve nudged Mariah and pushed a note at her. Mariah took the note and slowly opened it up, her attention more drawn to the doctor's interesting lecture. When she finally did look down at the note she saw Genevieve's scrawl: _"Handsome beyond words!"_

Mariah replied with her own scrawl: _"Have you been listening at all?"_

Genevieve boldly scrawled back: _"Silly me. Perhaps he gives private lectures?"_ Her eyes danced with mischief as her hand hid her smile that was clearly meant for the handsome lecturer.

Mariah read the reply and, though appalled, struggled not to giggle. She crumpled the note into her fist and shook her head at her friend and her lustful, unladylike thoughts. "What am I to do with you?" she whispered out of the side of her mouth, eyes still trained on the lecturer. "It's a wonder that you and I keep a passing grade!"

Genevieve whispered back, "We are passing because we are smart! We were made for doctorship."

"I keep telling you that there is No. Such. Word!" Mariah whispered back.

"Well, there should be," Genevieve retorted.

The end of the doctor's lecture was greeted with resounding applause this time. Many students left their seats to converge on him with their handshakes and questions. Instructor Biggs, a female medical pioneer herself, stepped forward with raised hands and announced that the doctor was pressed for time but questions could be submitted in writing to her and she would forward them to him later for his replies. A collective groan of disappointment rose up from the students but they reluctantly began to file out of the lecture hall. However, Mariah and Genevieve had worked their way through to the front of the throng and remained.

"I just have to say, Dr. Morgan, that I greatly admire your work with Scotland Yard. You first inspired me during the time you worked on the Ripper case nine years ago." Mariah clutched her books to her chest and breathlessly awaited his reply. His back was to her as he retrieved his journal from the lectern. When he turned around, her jaw dropped. Her thoughts were voiced to the viewing public for she'd expected him to look a bit older but seeing him up close, she realized that he looked no older than the newspaper's sketch of him nine years ago.

Wasn't he about the same age as her father? Her obvious surprise at his still youthful appearance, in her opinion, was evident in her eyes as she gazed at him, temporarily speechless. The newspaper sketch of him was seen superimposed over his face and then it gradually disappeared, leaving his now tense face visible to her. Before either of them could say anything further, Genevieve barged past Mariah and thrust her hand out to him.

"Genevieve Le Blanc," she gleefully introduced herself. Before he could take her hand or react, Instructor Biggs interceded and shooed both young women away from him, reminding them to put their questions to paper and submit them to her first. As they left the lecture hall, Instructor Biggs turned to the doctor and apologized profusely but he seemed to take it all in stride.

"Curiosity from the young ones is always welcomed. Never an inconvenience," he told her with a polite, tolerant smile.

"You're too gracious," she gushed, secretly wishing she were less gray, less plump, and 15 years younger. The doctor smiled and nodded and as he turned to leave the lecture hall, she called after him.

"Oh, Dr. Morgan! Where shall I forward any of the students' written questions?"

"Forward them to Scotland Yard, care of Detective Constable Walter Dew," he replied. "He was Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline's great assistant during the Whitechapel murders before Abberline retired." He thanked Instructor Biggs again and left the lecture hall.

Waiting for him in the hallway just outside the door, however, were a slightly agitated Mariah and a very smitten Genevieve. They both began to approach him but Mariah gave a gentle push to her friend and whispered something inaudible to her. Genevieve rolled her eyes and sighed, reluctantly hanging back as Mariah proceeded to move closer to him.

In a hushed tone, she apologized for her impertinence and asked the questions she could not a few minutes earlier. "How do you do it, Doctor? You don't look a day older than the sketch of you in the newspapers nine years ago." She hesitated a moment and asked, "Is it wild boar's fat? You rub it on your face and hands, I've heard. Does it really work to stave off wrinkles?

His left cheek pulled up into a half grin and he lowered his head, chuckling. He raised his head and took in a deep breath and let it out quickly. "I'm afraid not, Miss, uh ... ?"

"Miss Mariah Stevenson. Soon to be Mrs. Mariah Stevenson Morgan," she proudly replied.

His one-sided smile flattened out and he blinked a couple of times. "Morgan?" he asked with what looked like a more forced smile.

"Yes. My intended is Stephen Morgan. Are you related, Sir?" she asked hopefully.

"Sorry. I don't believe so," he quickly replied. "And as far as me or anyone rubbing the fat of a wild boar on any part of their skin in order to ward off wrinkles is absurd. The result would only be to make the skin greasy. Very greasy." He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and tipped his black, bowler hat as he wished Genevieve and her a good day. He then walked away, leaving them alone in the hallway.

"Well?" Genevieve asked as Mariah rejoined her. "I do hope you put in a good word for me."

"For what? Genny, I - no. I had other questions for him. Questions that I now feel foolish for having asked."

"Is he in the market for a lively lady friend?" Genevieve impatiently demanded, grinning broadly.

"What am I to do with you, my friend?" Mariah gave into her usual urge to giggle at her friend's antics and grabbed her upper arm, yanking her along with her down the hallway.

Two days later ...

Genevieve, still very smitten with the handsome Dr. Morgan, had made some inquiries about him and tracked him to a row house in one of the poorer sections in the East End of London. Although it felt like she'd entered a different world and she wondered why such a refined and accomplished man such as he would choose to live in such a neighborhood, she continued on her quest to find him there. Many of the unfortunate inhabitants, some barefooted, nearly all in ragged, patched clothing, stared at her with either curiosity, suspicion, or indifference. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally found the address written on the tiny piece of paper in her hand. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she knocked on the door. After several moments, she knocked again. Then a third time, louder, calling his name.

"He ain't there," a woman's scratchy voice came from behind her.

Genevieve whirled around and found herself face to face with a pale, scrawny, young woman in a worn, torn dress and a shawl covering her head and shoulders. In her arms, she clutched a fretful toddler, bouncing him from time to time.

"You ... know Dr. Morgan?" she stammered.

"Who don't 'round 'ere?" the woman replied. "Good man. Saved me Billy, 'ere." She shifted the boy from one arm to the other and shook her head. "Shame to lose 'im."

"He ... he's gone? Gone for good?" Genevieve asked, disappointment growing inside her. Why did all the good ones get away from her, she wondered to herself. "Did he say where?"

"No. But I'll bet 'e's off t'America." The woman walked away, adding, "Everyone what leaves this rot of a place, goes t'America."

The episode ended with a passenger ship as it sailed closer to the Statue of Liberty. The passengers crowded along the edge of the ship's railing and stared at the welcoming monument with awe, glee, reverence, thankfulness, and a myriad of other emotions reflected on their faces. One passenger, in particular, was a well-dressed Englishman now sporting a pencil-thin mustache. He slowly removed his bowler hat, never taking his eyes off the imposing statue of Lady Liberty. His owlish eyes grew even bigger with wonder as they took in the New York shoreline of the new country he would now call home.

Joanna Reece remained seated on the sofa while the closing credits rolled up and the theme music played. The instances of that Henry, unaged, showing up in different situations and locations over the passing decades had left her amused but not surprised. It made so much more sense to her now, why and how their ME had filled his personal well of knowledge, making him an expert on many diverse subjects.

"What's up with that?" her husband, Gregory, asked with indignant skepticism. "They're trying to say that this guy, this Henry guy, probably survived being shot on board that slave ship and then lived for decades after that?" He scoffed and shook his head. "Maybe the title of this show should be 'The Morgan Zone'."

Joanna couldn't help but chuckle at his skepticism and his sarcastically renaming the show because he felt it leaned more toward the supernatural with that element of the recurring Henry. If only he knew, she thought, that part of their real life had recently tilted that way. She didn't dare share any of what she'd learned about Henry with him, though. And she was sure that she wasn't breaking her marriage vows by not telling him. The vows didn't exactly cover anything like this.

 _'For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health ... and if you find out somebody's immortal.'_ She chuckled again at how ridiculous that last part sounded. That is, if it weren't true.

Gregory yawned and stretched, then stood up. "Gotta leave early tomorrow morning. Bunch of boring meetings all day," he told her, pulling her up from the sofa and hugging her close. "Come to bed."

"Yeah, just need to clear a few things away - "

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her toward their bedroom. "Nope. You're coming to bed now," he said with a teasing grin. "I won't be here for most of tomorrow." He then lowered his voice to sexy-husky and added, "But I'll be here tonight."

Joanna grinned and shook her head at her impossible man. "You're bad," she chuckled softly.

"Yeah, but you like it," he whispered in her ear as he closed the bedroom door.

vvvv

Over in the Hanson household, Karen Hanson voiced nearly the same skeptic remarks as Greg Reece had. She watched her husband, Mike, grow stiffly silent during the final two scenes in which that Henry was depicted as having been involved as possibly the world's first crime scene investigator and criminal profiler for the Whitechapel/Ripper murders. While she wondered why these two scenes in particular had robbed him of speech, she recalled that in 2014, he'd remarked how unbelievable it was that their ME, Henry Morgan, had shown up with the original crime scene notes on the brutal 1888 murder of Mary Jane Kelly, the Ripper's last known victim. The notes had proved valuable in identifying Mark Bentley as a copycat serial killer in that 2014 case.

"Mike, you are taking this show just a little too seriously, I think. You haven't even touched your beer."

"Huh?" He looked at her and took a big swig of his bottled beer and raising it to her. "S'almost empty."

"Why so quiet then? Does it scare you when you see the 'phantom Henry' inserted into some of the situations decades and decades after he was supposed to have died?" she teased.

He scoffed and drained the rest of his beer. "What are ya talkin' about?"

"Sometimes your eyes get big or you suddenly suck in your breath and hold it." She straightened up, twisting in her seat to look at him. "I'm glad you want to watch this ancient life stuff with me but your reactions are starting to worry me."

"It's, uh, just that, uh, the Doc is so secretive about his personal life, ya know? This is my only way of - "

Karen closed her eyes, nodding and sighing as she finished his thought. "Your only way of finding out what his life was probably like." She opened her eyes and looked at him again. "Mike, honey, his life is not this, this ... old stuff we've been seeing. You said yourself he's a few years younger than you are." She swiped her arm up frustratedly at the TV and continued.

"None of these episodes have focused on his time period. And with the season finale to air next Sunday, I doubt if we're gonna see anything pertinent to the time that he was born and lived."

Mike was suddenly hit by a wave of guilt because he knew that he could not, should not share what he, Lieu, Lucas, and most likely Jo had found out about Henry and his life that stretched back 200 years before his fake birth year of 1979. It actually hurt, physically hurt, not to be able to tell her. But, of course, his special lady knew him well enough to have noticed his reactions to certain parts in the scenes.

The brown, leather journal with the original crime scene notes in it of the 1888 Mary Kelly murder attributed to Jack the Ripper, had literally jumped off the screen at him. He recalled when Henry had brought the journal into his office in the morgue in order to consult them during the Mark Bentley copycat serial killer case. At the time, he had not believed the journal was the original. Later, he conceded only that Henry had somehow managed to gain possession of the notes from an auction or something. But now that he thought about it, the journal had been too thick with other notes meaning that other crimes were documented in it. During that investigation, he'd also exhibited extensive knowledge of the 1947 murder of Elizabeth Short, dubbed the Black Dahlia murder in Los Angeles, California.

 _'Were other infamous crime scenes documented in Henry's journal?' he wondered._

He loved his wife very much but ... he couldn't let her know right now about Henry. Maybe never. Yeah ... never.

"I'm just ... a fan, that's all," he lamely offered. "Can't a guy be a fan of a TV show without it being a federal offense?"

"Watch it, buddy, or this sofa's gonna be your bed for the next couple of days."

They attempted a glare at each other of mock annoyance but quickly failed. Turning their faces slowly away from each other to hide their growing grins, the laughter eventually erupted from them both at the same time. He grabbed the remote and clicked the TV off. He then grabbed her around the waist and stood up, lifting her up with him.

"Come on, woman, let's you and me go have a private discussion about all of these sexual misconduct crimes plaguing our country. See if we can't commit some of our own," he grinned and announced in a jokingly authoritative voice.

"Ohhh, myyy, Goddd, you are awful," she laughingly replied.

vvvv

A BBC news journalist now droned on with a report of a drop in the baby seal population in the Arctic on the TV screen in Lucas Wahl's living room. Although he wasn't a pet owner, he'd been an avid supporter of PETA and the ASPCA for years. But he took in none of the report on the baby seals while an ear-to-ear grin plastered itself on his face. It had grown wider as he'd watched the lecture hall scene. As if finding out that his boss, the Big Guy, was probably more than 200 years old wasn't exciting enough, finding out that he may have cut his crime-solving teeth on one of the most famous and gruesome murder sprees in the history of the world was just ... over the top.

 _'Dang, Henry, what haven't you done in your long life_?' _he marveled_. Not only had he been born into a rich family, he'd traveled the world extensively (even if it was to run from one place and hide in another until he deemed it safe to emerge again). Because of the copious amounts of knowledge he'd accumulated over the centuries, his IQ had to be triple that of Steven Hawking. And, if the TV show provided an accurate account, he'd been breaking hearts all along the way. Lucas could name at least three female cops in the 11th Precinct and a male and a female Assistant ME in the morgue who'd shed a few tears when they realized that Henry only had eyes for Jo.

"You Immortal heartbreaker, you," Lucas chuckled, shaking his head. A sudden thought hit him and he shot to his feet. He paced as he crooked his right arm, pumping his elbow downward, his hand balled into a fist.

"I work with an Immortal. I work with an Immortal! Me! Lucas Wahl!"

Lucas knew that others might think the Doc was weird or creepy or both, but after having worked with him for the past six years, he'd developed a tremendous amount of respect for him and his unorthodox approach to determining a COD. After he'd joined the detectives in the field, Lucas had gained a new level of respect and admiration for him for his crime-solving abilities. He proudly let others know that he was Henry's assistant, his trusted assistant. Hmphf. And they weren't.

He stopped and stuck out his chin, puffed out his chest and with a serious expression on his face said, "Your secret is safe with me, Henry." The stunning reality hit him again and brought back his broad grin.

"Henry's immortal. He's immortal! I wonder ... I wonder ... if it's catching?" Probably not, he reluctantly concluded. But it was still cool. Very cool.


	22. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 22

Henry stood near his room and watched Jo enter hers across the hall and close the door. He glanced again at Lord Henry's bedroom at the end of the darkened hallway. Just as he'd started to enter his room, the doors of a previously unnoticed, small elevator near Lord Henry's room opened, then Cynthia and Abe stepped out of it. Henry approached with a look of amused surprise on his face.

"Why, I had no idea that that was there." Noticing how Cynthia supported his son by one of his arms, he quickly stepped over to support him by his other arm. "Abraham, are you alright?"

"Oh, hey, Henry," Abe said, smiling and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. "Good thing that thing was there. Don't think I could have taken the stairs." He squeezed his eyes shut and covered a wide yawn with his hand. The long-lived father smiled as memories of his son fighting sleep as a child came back to him.

"Yes, yes," Henry replied, bringing himself back to the present. "Let's get you properly off to bed." They reached Abe's room and Henry thanked Cynthia, telling her that he would take it from here. Abe surprised both of them by pulling his arms out of their grasps.

"Oh, no, you don't. I'm not a baby." He opened the door and turned to face both of them. "Thanks and I'll see you both in the morning." With that, he left the two of them in the hall chuckling softly. Henry thanked Cynthia again for helping Abe and instead of bidding her good night, asked about the elevator.

"Clever the way the walls conceal the opening," he said, waving his hand back and forth in the direction of the opening. "Might I ask why the staff brought him up the stairs instead of utilizing it?"

Cynthia sighed and lowered her eyes. "He virtually ignores it. Refuses to admit that he needs it." She raised tired eyes to him. "Insists on taking the stairs - by himself." Frustration seeped out from her soft-voiced reply.

"I take it your brother is ... very self-reliant," he said politely.

"No, Doctor. He's very stubborn. Pigheaded and impossible!" The pitch of her voice rose before she managed to lower it again. "For certain, they will send for the funeral cart for me first! My heart will give out before his does." She knitted her brow and added, "The way he ignores his doctor's orders and dodges the nurse!" Cynthia shook her head and silently walked away from him to her own room.

vvvv

Henry wasn't sure how long he'd lain on his bed trying and failing at taking a nap. He'd only taken off his suit jacket, tie, and shoes. His young host's condition earlier that evening still worried him and he wanted to be ready to go to his bedside at a moment's notice. He rolled over on his left side and consulted his pocket watch for the time.

 _'Only 4:11 AM.'_ He rubbed his closed eyelids to relieve the burn from sleep-deprivation _._ Nearly three and a quarter hours had passed since he'd last attended to Lord Henry. Closing the pocket watch and placing it back on the nightstand, he sighed and rolled onto his back again. He closed his eyes again and tried to will himself to sleep but it wasn't working. Grunting out a sigh of frustration, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his stockinged feet on the floor's thick carpet.

This sleepless, night vigil had a familiar feel to it. The times that he and Abigail had taken turns hovering over Abe when he'd been sick as a child. The times when he'd doctored the living and had stayed close by a patient struggling to recover from an illness or surgery. But this vigil also had the stark coldness of a death watch, he sadly acknowledged.

"Why must it be like this?" he whispered to the darkened room. "Why can't I just ... tell him that there is absolutely nothing I can do for him? Then Jo and Abe and I can simply leave." He didn't relish being there to witness the poor man succumbing once and for all to his ailments.

Just then, at least two or more sets of hurried footfalls from people speaking in hushed, urgent tones drew his attention to the hallway outside his door. He walked over and tilted his head down to concentrate on the muffled noises. A male voice crackled for someone to "get the doctor". At that, he snatched open the door and flew out of the room. Steadham, seeing him, motioned for him to join him as he, Cynthia, and the nurse entered Lord Henry's bedroom. The two women went quickly to his bedside; Cynthia holding his hand and weeping softly, the nurse taking his vital signs and struggling with her own tears. A very worried but stalwart Steadham drew near to Henry.

"Whatever it is that he expects you to tell him or do for him - now is the time," he whispered in a hoarse, shaky voice. Henry pursed his lips and nodded, then joined the two women at the young man's bedside.

Sensing Henry's presence, he slowly shifted his eyes away from his sister and looked at Henry. He smiled weakly and bid him come nearer. The nurse moved away from the side of the bed and Henry sat down there in a chair provided by Steadham and returned the young man's weak smile. He looked over Henry's head to Steadham and locked gazes with him, nodding his head once. The wordless request understood, Steadham ushered Cynthia and the nurse out of the room, leaving the two Henry's alone in the ominous silence. The younger man spoke first.

"Are you the man in the stories? The stories that have been ... passed down ... in my family for generations? The man only represented ... in minuscule in the mini-series? Are you ... the _**undying**_ one?" His labored breathing made speaking difficult. He fell back into his pillows but continued to focus a tense but hopeful gaze on Henry.

"You can be honest with me. I ... I know that I ... haven't got much more time, Doctor. Whether you can ... help me or not, your secret will go ... to the grave ... with me."

Henry considered his words and asked himself what harm it could do to tell him the truth.

"My friend," Henry hesitantly began and took in a deep breath to steady his nerves and work past his doubts about confirming even a small part of his long story. "If I were that man," he said, then swallowed, carefully choosing his words and gathering more courage. " ... how exactly do you expect me to be able to help you? Would you think I possess magic or a tonic or that there's some sort of ... spell?" Words failed him as his voice trailed off, and the guilt that always accompanied his half-truthing washed over him.

"I was rather hoping ... you would be able to tell me," the fading young man replied with a small laugh that erupted into a short but painful series of coughs. He waved off the necessity to call the nurse but took a sip of water from the glass Henry held to his lips.

"This man chose to be a doctor ... a healer ... before being transformed into ... an Immortal. We believe (cough) that he can heal (cough, cough) with more than just his, his medical tools."

Dumbfounded and dismayed, Henry leaned back in his chair and rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. How could his palms be so sweaty when his throat was so dry? Feelings of guilt, frustration, and a bit of anger gnawed at him until he could no longer just stay seated. The guilt and frustration stemmed from how helpless he felt from not having any remedy for the fading man. The anger was directed at their family members for having assumed too much and latched their own bit of fantasy onto the true tale of his unnatural life. Not only that, but each succeeding generation had swallowed the lie, most likely embellishing it through the many decades. Blast! He paced the floor from the bed to the door, then over to the sitting area.

Tracing the wooden back edge of one of the two upholstered armchairs there, he realized that the color and pattern of the fabric were not original to them. He blinked several times as he recalled them in their original states. These were the chairs from William's bedroom, he realized. This was, or, rather, had been his room! As his brother had grown into his teens, his parents had felt it appropriate to appoint them in their own separate rooms. He looked around the room again, really looked, and noticed a few more items that had also belonged to his brother, William. An overwhelming feeling of family, love, belonging and something else - duty - descended upon him. Although it had been centuries since he'd enjoyed the company of his parents and siblings, it was as if they were all in that very room right now with him again. Urging him, encouraging him to do or say something, he knew not what, but something to help ease the young man into his transition. Suddenly, something that Abigail had told him once, popped into his head. Propelled by a new determination, he quickly returned to sit in the chair by Lord Henry's bedside.

"Yes. I am that man. That undying man." Although it was the truth, he was relying on, sadly, that the young man would take the admission to his grave.

The frail man closed his eyes and relaxed more into his pillows, a smile of contentment gracing his countenance. His labored breathing calmed a bit but he suddenly opened his eyes and looked wide-eyed at Henry.

"Not lying to me, are you?" His words left him in a rush causing him to compensate by taking in a few hurried breaths.

Henry chuckled and said, "No. Not lying to you. But the family lore is a bit off. I can die, and I have done so many times, but I always return healed in a large body of water, naked."

"The ship and stormy sea episode," the young man breathlessly stated.

"Yes," Henry replied, nodding.

"How ... how does it all work?"

"You know about as much as I do about my condition right now," he admitted.

"Nowhere ... in our long family history has there been ... mention of anyone else like you. Why were you chosen ... from among us to be so blessed ... with a long, healthy life while I was chosen to be - cursed?! Trapped inside this frail, fragile body from birth?" There was more than a tinge of jealousy and anger in his voice as he desperately searched Henry's face for answers.

"I have no answers for you regarding our respective fates." Henry lowered his head, shaking it.

"How is this possible, then? How are **you** possible?"

Henry shook his head at the man's hard questions before replying, "I don't know, my friend. Such questions have plagued me without answers for more than two centuries." The prophetic words of his beloved Abigail returned to him.

 _"You were made like this for a reason, Henry."_

Henry still wasn't sure if he believed that or not but he felt suddenly encouraged though still uncertain about what to do or say.

"Give me your hands," he said with a strong, authoritative tone, surprising even himself, and grasped the young man's outstretched hands. "Hold tight. As tightly as you can," he commanded him.

"Now. Close your eyes. Concentrate on every part of your body in need of healing. Every area in pain." How much good this exercise in distraction would do, he couldn't say, but at least it might occupy the young man's mind enough to allow an easier transition.

"Hurts ... almost ... everywhere ... " Pride had always prevented him from admitting that to anyone before but he felt that being truthful with this 'undying man' finally here to help him was the best thing to do.

"Grip tighter, then," Henry said more forcefully. "That's it. Now crush that pain ... demand that it leave your body."

"I ... I don't understand ... I can't ... " Lord Henry groaned, shaking his head.

"Concentrate!" Henry demanded, his eyes tightly shut, his teeth clenched. "Concentrate," he demanded more gently. "Tell ... the pain ... to leave. **Demand** ... your body to heal."

"I ... I understand ... " he replied, struggling through rapid, labored breaths that gradually began to slow and normalize. "I ... yes ... I can see it." His smile mirrored Henry's, one of delighted wonder.

Unbeknownst to either of them, they both saw inside the ailing man which rendered them speechless. The blood racing through his veins; the angry, ruptured areas; the twisted areas the result of scar tissue from more than one injury or surgery; the increasingly unresponsive parts from misuse; finally ceasing their relentless attacks on his pained and exhausted body. The look of delighted wonder on his face changed slowly to a grateful acceptance. His breathing no longer labored, his coloring no longer pale. His body began to fill out to healthy proportions as muscle and tissue built up as they normally should have been during his short lifespan. His limbs untensed and relaxed for perhaps the first time in his life. The thinning hair on his scalp thickened in, a lustrous auburn reclaiming and obliterating the premature grey. His eyes remained closed and his grip on Henry's hands unknowingly tightened to an unbearable level for the Immortal.

It was beautiful, utterly beautiful what he was seeing and feeling. Just to be able to take in a deep breath for the first time in his life was beyond exhilarating. But he couldn't open his eyes yet; he didn't want to miss any part of this miraculous healing his ... mind(?) ... was witnessing. He'd spent a lifetime of warding off cold chills because of a perpetually cold body, but now he began to feel the warmth of radiating heat from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Every inch of his body warmed to such a degree that somehow told him that he was being remolded, remade from the inside out. Every defect being corrected, every twist and turn in his body being straightened out once and for all. This was beyond his wildest dreams! The undying man had not only finally been found, but he was here, sharing part of his gift with him. He was being made whole! As sure as God had made the moon and the stars, he declared to himself, God had made the Immortal man to one day come and block his path to an early grave.

The young man's healing process was not so beautiful for Henry, though. He was feeling just the opposite. As Lord Henry healed, Henry began to feel the man's pain transferred to him. Seeing him heal from the inside had at first been wondrous but was now horrendous. The pain was horrendous. It was excruciating. He tried frantically to wrest his hands from Lord Henry's painful grip but was unsuccessful. Henry opened his eyes and his mouth but was in so much pain that no sound would emanate. Even though he was aware of something strange and miraculous happening in a positive way for the young man, he was more keenly aware of his own distress. After a Herculean effort, he managed to wrench his hands out of Lord Henry's grasp but the pain he felt was still too unbearable for him to even remain seated. He clutched himself around the waist and fell to the floor, knocking the chair over as he fell. At the same time, something between a grunt and a scream was bellowed from his guts. Coherent thought was lost to him. The horrendous images, the excruciating pain had to end. He unleashed another guttural scream in a vain effort to extricate himself from this ... whatever this hold on him was. One thought did manage to emerge: after having cheated death for so long, was he finally dying himself?

His screams along with the sounds of him falling and knocking over the chair, alarmed the others waiting outside in the hallway. Steadham led the charge with Jo, Abe, and the nurse right behind him as they burst into the room. The sight of Lord Henry resting peacefully in bed with a contented smile on his face drew a sharp comparison to Henry writhing on the floor obviously in unthinkable pain. Steadham and the nurse raced to Lord Henry's side, Jo and Abe in their bedclothes and bathrobes, raced to Henry's aid. Once it was apparent that Henry was the one in distress and not Lord Henry, Steadham directed the nurse to render what aid she could to him.

But suddenly Henry lay prone like a limp ragdoll on the carpeted floor as if released from his torment. He was panting and gulping air down into his burning lungs, much like he'd done during his many after-death reawakenings in water. The small group exchanged worried looks all around mostly from feelings of helplessness in this odd situation. What had just transpired in this room between the two men, apparently alleviating Lord Henry of his ailments while incapacitating Henry?

Henry was finally able to open his eyes and push himself up to a kneeling position. Jo stroked the back of his head and cheek, resting her hand on his shoulder. He managed a nod and weak smile at Jo and Abe, allowing them to help him to his feet.

"Henry, what the - what happened?" Jo asked, greatly concerned. Finding that he was unable to reply just yet, he raised a hand to her to calm her fears. The nurse, her attention averted to Lord Henry, gasped and caused the others to gape in awe at the still bedridden man.

Rings of what appeared to be white heat radiated from his feet to his head, then back again. Blood, bone, and sinew, at first plainly visible, faded gradually after several cycles and the radiating rings vanished. A healthier and healed-looking Lord Henry opened his eyes, breathing in deeply. He sat up, running his hands over his body, mouth agape, eyes widened. His breaths shuddered past his shaky grin. He looked around at everyone in the room, his gaze settling on Henry. Through eyes brimming with unshed tears, he nodded thanks to Henry, who smiled back at him.

"Cynthia!" he called to her, extending his arms to her. He stood and embraced her tightly when she rushed over to him sobbing tears of joy. They held each other for several moments. Then he broke the embrace and stepped back from her and stomped both feet down to illustrate his new physical sturdiness. Cynthia covered her mouth with both hands and gleefully glanced at the others then back at her brother.

"Steadham," the newly-healed man said, turning to him.

"Yes, Your Lordship?" Steadham replied, stepping close to him.

"You're fired," he happily announced with a broad grin. He placed a hand on the shoulder of a visibly troubled Steadham and added, "Fear not. I have not suddenly lost my mind."

"Then - why - ?" he asked, confused.

"Because - Uncle Reggie - I've decided that I will no longer employ family members in a position of servitude." He and his surrogate father exchanged warm smiles and then he clapped his hands together.

"Now, out. All of you. I must shower and get dressed." He spread his arms and shooed them toward the door and out into the hallway. In response to a question from Uncle Reggie, he replied, "I must get dressed for breakfast." When reminded of the early hour, he replied much louder, "Then, wake the kitchen staff. This is cause for celebration!" He then closed the door.

Jo and Abe still stood on either side of Henry, slightly supporting him. He assured them that he was fine and that they could retire to their rooms to prepare for the celebratory meal, but they remained near him. Cynthia buried her face in Steadham's/Uncle Reggie's chest and he comforted her in a tight embrace. He held out one hand to Henry and they shook hands.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I have no idea what you did in there, but ... thank you for saving my boy's life." Cynthia turned a tear-stained but grateful face to Henry. She broke away from their embrace and flung herself at Henry, wrapping her arms around his neck in wordless thanks. Henry, still a bit wobbly-kneed from his ordeal, managed to pat her on the back a few times. She kissed him on the cheek and caressed the same spot, then stepped back into her surrogate father's embrace.

Henry, Jo, and Abe watched them walk away and then turned their attention to back to Henry. Although he continued to insist that he was perfectly fine, Jo and Abe could see that he was fading fast, his sleep deprivation finally coming to an end. He eventually ended his protests and allowed them both to escort him inside his room. Once he'd sat down on the bed, however, sleep pulled him down onto the pillow. He closed his tired eyes and began to snore softly. Jo and Abe stood by his bedside with their hands on their hips, frowning.

"One of us should undress him so that he'll be more comfortable," Abe said to Jo but not taking his eyes off his father.

"Well, it's not gonna be me," Jo replied. "Henry and I have an ... understanding." She wasn't quite comfortable discussing their love life with anyone else, let alone with his son.

"Well, I'm too sleepy myself," Abe said, yawning.

Jo stepped closer to the bed and motioned for Abe to follow her. She lifted Henry's legs up onto the bed and together they lifted up the bed covers from the other side of the bed and laid them over him. They then tiptoed out to their own rooms.


	23. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 23

"Ahhh," Abe moaned as he settled into his luxury, first-class seating. They'd just enjoyed a delicious dinner meal of their varied choosings. Abe had just consumed a toffee pudding that sat happily in his stomach atop the porcini-filled pasta with mushrooms and cream of white bean soup. His eyes had lit up at the first-class menu just as they had when the trio had entered the First Class Lounge in the airport as they'd waited to board their flight. He had delightfully partaken of the champagne from the wet bar and the assorted small, triangular-cut sandwiches or colorful meat and veggie wraps.

"I just love British Airways," he sighed with closed eyes and a broad smile of satisfaction.

Because of what Jo felt was an unnecessarily hefty cost for a first class, round-trip ticket, she still regretted not having chosen to fly business class, at least. However, she grudgingly admitted that she could get used to the excellent food and pampering that had been extended to them. And her dinner choice of seared scallops, the baked salmon entree, and the sticky, toffee pudding had left her breathless with every scrumptious bite.

"Trip turned out better than what we thought, eh, Henry? Even if we did miss the end of Episode 5." Abe opened his eyes briefly and turned to look at his father seated across from him, next to Jo.

"Indeed, Abraham," Henry smilingly replied. Although he thought his own meal of a light salad, chicken with couscous, and mango slices for dessert was delicious, his thoughts were filled more with his newly and miraculously-healed relative, Lord Henry, than with the missed ending of Episode 5 of the TV series chronicling his family's history.

"And we're gonna discuss it in depth once we get back home," Jo said, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow.

Henry heard it more as a directive rather than a request to shed some light on his and Lord Henry's "session". Although the topic was one that he wished to avoid altogether, he had to admit that he rather liked being softly bullied by the lovely brunette.

"Oh, absolutely," he replied with a side-eyed grin and a quick nod to her. He knew that both Abe and Jo had unanswered questions about what had occurred between him and Lord Henry the night the man was miraculously healed. Truth be told, he failed to understand it himself. Another supernatural phenomenon visited upon him and his family members, the why's and how's of which eluded him as much as the why's and how's of his own condition. To make matters worse, the young recipient of his "magic touch" was as much in the dark as he was. As if delving into his thoughts, Jo asked another question, her curiosity having gotten the better of her, not allowing her to wait until after their long flight.

"Was it you or him, Henry?" She kept her voice low, looking around at the other passengers then back at him. If he didn't know better, he'd say she looked worried. Scared, even.

He slowly inhaled and exhaled, pursing his lips slightly. "Neither of us knows, Jo. Only time will tell." He recalled the last conversation he'd had with Lord Henry before leaving for Heathrow Airport during which they both presented their own theories to each other.

vvvv

 _"You've never healed anyone before?"_

 _"No. And just what makes you so sure that it was anything that I had done?"_

 _"Why, what else could it have been? You are the undying one - "_

 _"Please, please, don't refer to me that way. It's ... well, the term isn't exactly correct. As I told you before, I can die, I just ... almost immediately rejuvenate."_

 _"In water."_

 _"Yes."_

 _"Naked."_

 _"Yes, yes, naked."_

 _"Henry ... my good man. Isn't it possible that since your research has been limited to finding a way to die permanently, that you have simply neglected all other aspects of this, this blessing? How can you be so sure that you cannot share your gift? Think of all the good you could do by helping others!"_

 _"Out of the question, simply ... out of the question. Besides, I wouldn't wish my condition onto my worst enemy." Even though his worst enemy does share his condition, but that was a story better left untold for now. "The only reason I did what I did with you is because ... "_

 _"You were humoring me." He couldn't help chuckling. "You assumed - incorrectly, thank God - that I would be fooled into thinking you were healing me, therefore easing me into my grave."_

 _"I submit that you simply healed yourself through the power of positive thinking."_

 _The two men studied each other, digesting and dissecting the other's theory._

 _"At some point in the future, one or both of us may be compelled to put our warring theories to the test," Lord Henry solemnly predicted._

 _"Do what you think you must, my friend. I'll have no say in the matter." Not wishing to sound too harsh or too combative, he quickly added, "I wish only good things for you. Only good." He extended his hand to Lord Henry, who grasped it and shook it with both of his hands._

 _"As do I for you. Thank you, Sir." They both smiled at each other, realizing that the younger man's use of 'Sir' was to honor the ME as his elder. Albeit his much, much older elder._

vvvv

The happy but travel worn trio offboarded the buggy/kart that had transported them and their luggage up to the entrance inside the terminal. They removed their luggage and Henry tipped the skycap, intending next to procure a taxi for them. Only after the skycap had driven away did they become aware of two familiar faces there to greet them.

"Well. This is a surprise," Henry stated with a pleasant grin but more than a little curiosity as he approached his two colleagues. "What brings you two out here today?"

"Well, we couldn't let you three globe-trotting rock stars bounce home in a lousy taxi, now could we?" Hanson quipped and directed their attention to a long, black limousine parked at the curb just outside the entry doors. "Courtesy of Lt. Reece and the NYPD," he announced as the group of five approached the vehicle.

"Flyin' in style, ridin' in style," Lucas chimed in, a big grin threatening to permanently cement itself onto his face.

The limo driver jumped out of the car and hastily made his way to the rear of the vehicle to place their luggage into the trunk. Hanson opened the door for them and Jo, Abe, and Henry piled in.

"All of this wasn't necessary," Henry protested. "But very much appreciated." After Hanson closed the door, Henry rolled down the window. "I must remember to thank the Lieutenant as soon as possible."

"Just out of curiosity," Jo asked, leaning toward the open window, "where is Lieu? Why didn't she join you two?"

"After 9/11, you know," Hanson began, "says she doesn't 'do' airports."

"Because of friends, comrades, lost," Henry reverently surmised.

"Nah," Lucas replied before Hanson could. "She says the lines are too long and crazy. Swears by the trains now."

Hanson and Lucas exchanged goodbyes with the traveling trio and Hanson reminded the limo driver to take them anywhere they wanted to go and that the bill should be forwarded to the NYPD care of Lt. Reece at the 11th Precinct. He stepped back from the curb and stood next to Lucas as they watched the limo drive away.

"This is killing me," Lucas declared.

"Yeah, me, too," Hanson admitted. He clicked the opened lock icon on his key ring and the doors unlocked on his assigned police vehicle. He slipped in behind the wheel while Lucas slipped into the front passenger seat.

Lucas buckled his seatbelt then pounded his fists on his knees. "When do we get to let him know we knowww? The sooner he knows there are others besides Abe and Jo who have his back, the betterrr." He looked over at Hanson, more than a little frustrated. "Right?" He was practically demanding that Hanson agree with him and agree with him NOW.

Hanson sighed as he wheeled the car away from the airport. Keeping this wild bird under the hat was not going to be easy, he told himself.

"Yeah, but we don't wanna scare him off." He kept his eyes on the road as he added, "Gotta ... approach him just the right way, ya know?"

"Just wanna give the Big Guy a, a hug!" Lucas croaked out.

"Oh, for the love of - you and your hugs! Belay that!"

vvvv

Joanna Reece's cell phone rang just as she entered her home. She pulled the phone out of her jacket pocket and smiled when she saw M Hanson NYPD on the Caller ID.

"Lt. Reece ... Ahhh, good. Glad they made it back okay ... " She closed her eyes, nodding as she listened to Hanson. She closed the front door and walked through the livingroom into the kitchen.

"I understand, I understand ... "

As she poured herself a glass of lactose-free milk, she laughed. "Well, I'm sure that Dr. Morgan would like to do anything he can in order to avoid a Lucas hug." She lifted the glass to her lips then hesitated at Hanson's next question.

"We'll let them all rest for the next few days," she replied. "Then ... break the news to them as gently as we can." She nodded one last time. "Right. You and Wahl have a good evening, Detective."

Reece ended the call and placed her phone on the kitchen island. She took a long sip of her milk and then drank the rest of it without stopping. Each refreshing swallow tasted good going down, so satisfying. She rinsed the glass out and placed it in the dishwasher, then turned around and leaned back against the island. But how were Jo, Abe, and Henry (especially Henry) going to swallow it when she, Hanson, and Wahl shared their startling revelations about Henry's strange condition with them? And how could any of them know what the outcome of such a meeting ... no ... a confrontation ... would be?


	24. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 24

Despite a bit of lingering jetlag, Henry and Jo found themselves thankful to be back at work, almost eager to tackle their respective paper backlogs. Fortunately, for both of them, their usually manic Monday was proving to be less manic than expected since murders seemed to have been placed on hold during their absences. The only drawback, as far as Henry was concerned, was the surprising uptick in the number of suddenly-friendly folks, from the security guard to the head of the OCME, who now felt it was appropriate to greet him as if they were old friends. It was a bit unnerving, him being such a private person and all. But he had to admit that the manner in which his "new" friends (fans, according to Lucas) greeted him was nowhere near as uncomfortable as the way strangers outside of work either greeted him with slap-happy smiles and pointing fingers at him, or simply staring at him as if he held the keys to the universe.

The local media by now had tied him to the TV mini-series based on his years of work with the OCME and the NYPD. It had served to not only increase the popularity of the mini-series but had also raised his personal profile, much to his chagrin. People's reactions to him and his new celebrity status sometimes pushed every button on his paranoia panel and he wondered if it would serve to place him under the scrutiny of the government or those who meant only harm to him. And, possibly, to his son, Abraham, whom he would always feel fiercely charged to protect. Jo having teasingly declared him a celebrity some weeks earlier and his possible need to hide behind dark glasses, well ... he was seriously rethinking those glasses.

His thoughts returned him to where he was sitting behind his office desk, a pile of unopened mail on the desk to his right, a pile of paperwork to his left. It took him only a little over two hours to knock out the paperwork and send it off on its way. Thankfully, he'd taken care of most of it prior to his London trip and any new cases would have been handled by Lucas with the oversight of one of the other ME's. Some of the mail, however, was proving to be nearly as challenging and disturbing as the paperwork associated with some of the more complicated cases. A pink envelope with tiny red hearts all over it peeked out from the middle of the pile.

"Another love letter? Marriage proposal?" Lucas asked as he sauntered into the office and plopped down into a chair facing Henry's desk. "How many is that?" he grinned as he settled back in the chair.

Henry rolled his eyes, grimacing. "I have no idea." He let the unopened pink envelope drop from his fingers into the wastebasket on the side of his desk. It landed with a soft thunk, joining half a dozen other colorful, sealed envelopes.

"No, Doc!" Lucas lurched from his chair, arms outstretched toward the wastebasket with the discarded love letters that possibly (hopefully) contained feverish language and eye-popping photos of hot babes. If the Doc didn't want them, he'd be glad to take them off his hands. And why would the Big Guy want any of them, anyway? Lucas rationalized. Henry was already hooked up with one of the hottest females on the planet, Jo Martinez, NYPD detective or no. Surely, Henry wouldn't mind donating a few lovelorn lines to help plug up some of the holes ... well, black holes, really ... in his faithful assistant's stagnant love life.

Henry, appalled at Lucas' apparently licentious intentions, quickly pulled the wastebasket back and out of his reach. He wordlessly admonished him with a frown of disapproval, causing Lucas to blush and retreat backward from his office.

"Was just, uh ... yeah. Not a ... not a good idea," he stammered, shaking his head. "Your mail, your trash, my mistake." He quickly about-faced and left the office, side-stepping Jo as she approached the doorway.

She gave a questioning look to Henry as she knitted her brow, pointing to Lucas. He laughed quietly, shaking his head, his eyebrows pushed up into his hairline as she came closer. He took in a deep breath and let it out.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" he asked, the remnants of his mirth still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Her smile appeared only fleetingly. "We got a body," she replied. Smiles simply didn't mix with dead bodies.

His features morphed into professional resolve as he rose and traded his lab coat for his top coat and scarf. As an afterthought, he retrieved the discarded love letters from his wastebasket and shoved them down into his coat's deep pockets. The less temptation for the young man, the better, he felt.

vvvv

As Jo drove them to the crime scene, she glanced over at Henry and the brightly-colored envelopes he held. She grinned and said, "Heard you'd gotten a lot of propositions while we were gone."

"Hmmm, I'm sure there are some marriage proposals in here, too," he replied, the most intently serious look on his face he usually wore when working through a case scenario in his mind.

"Marriage? You haven't even opened any of them," she pointed out, incredulous.

He spread them like a hand of cards and passed them under his nose. Plucking three from the bunch and tossing the others into the backseat, he animatedly told her, "At least three different seductive fragrances on these. Eau de Toilette, for one." He darted his eyes around, then looked at her. "Definitely marriage proposals," he concluded, dipping his head.

She mock-glared at him and snatched the envelopes from him, tossing them into the back seat with the others. "Yeah, Odor of Toilet."

"Jo, I can assure you that none of those postings mean anything to me," he replied defensively. "I was merely sharing my observations."

"And they mean nothing to me, either, Henry. But why did you bring them with you?"

He sighed. "To prevent Lucas from falling into ... degeneracy." He turned a look of disgust to her and asked, "Can you believe that he nearly jumped out of his skin and tried to salvage those ... letters ... from my waste bin? For what purpose, I can only imagine," he muttered, shuddering.

Jo's jaw dropped and her eyebrows flew up. The thought of Lucas getting secondhand thrills from someone else's love letters was a bit too much for her. She managed to swallow her laughter as they pulled up to a home in her own Washington Heights neighborhood cordoned off by yellow tape. She parked nearby and they exited the car. As they drew closer, they could see investigators swarming in and out of the front door, up and down the steps. Unis provided crowd control for the handful of onlookers and gawkers.

"Crime scene, Henry," Jo reminded him as she raised an eyebrow to him. "Your observations are only appreciated here." He smirked at her as they both snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves. They were greeted by a uni who informed them that she and her partner, in the course of conducting a well-being check on the home's occupants, Tom and Carol Easterly, had discovered Tom's dead body in a bathtub full of ice in the upstairs bathroom.

"Husband's body is upstairs in the tub," Officer Dawn Thibadeux informed them. "The widow, Carol Easterly, is in the livingroom, blubbering out something about needing to keep the bills paid. So when he died one day while being bathed - she just kept him there." She trailed behind Jo and Henry as she continued, "Just kept piling bags of ice on him to ... keep him ... "

"Preserved," Henry finished for her. Officer Thibadeux nodded hesitantly, then returned to help with crowd control outside the house.

Henry stepped into the bathroom and bent over to peer at Tom's corpse. Motioning for Jo to come closer, he pointed out to her how emaciated the elderly man's corpse was.

"Hmmm," he began his observations. "He appears to have been bedridden for months, perhaps even years. And, it looks as though," he paused, squatting to look closer at the man's physique and concluded, "he was most likely not ambulatory and was placed here by someone." He stood up but his eyes never left the man's corpse.

"Well, that stands with the widow's statement that he was being bathed. But who carried him here and placed him in the tub?" Jo asked. "I mean, it's a given that his widow doesn't look like she could have even lifted him. Right?" They had both glanced briefly at the widow while she sat in the livingroom clutching a tissue, a pained expression on her face, as they climbed the stairs to the second-story bathroom.

"Exactly, Detective. Who placed him in the bathtub? And where are they now?" They gave each other a knowing look and made their way back to the livingroom to question Carol Easterly.

vvvv

Tom Easterly's body lay on the stainless steel slab in the morgue, sandwiched in between Henry and Lucas on the left side and Jo and Mike on the right. Henry had just finished sharing the results of the autopsy.

"So ... not murder?" Jo asked.

"No," Henry quietly replied, lost in thought. An old weariness tinged his voice stemming from a long-held but unrequited curiosity. How many times had he viewed a corpse and wondered what the person had experienced once death had fully and completely engulfed them? He already knew what it was like to die from multiple organ failures after having ingested poison or succumbed to a long illness. But never from old age like this man obviously had. He was suddenly brought back to the present but his frown remained.

He sighed and added, "Merely a case of the widow's failure to report his death to the authorities in a timely manner." He pulled the sheet up and covered the man's face with it, then snapped off his gloves and deposited them into the waste receptacle.

Jo watched him with more than a little concern as his mind seemed to take him elsewhere, then relief as it brought him back to the task at hand. "What is it, Henry?"

He cleared his throat before answering, "Oh, just thinking about poor Mrs. Easterly. Her fear of being poverty-stricken drove her to commit such a desperate act in order to keep her dead husband's pension checks coming." He pursed his lips and shook his head. "Have you managed to find out who provided the heavy lifting for the deceased? Perhaps there are other charges to be levied against her and any co-conspirators?"

"Yeah, Doc. Since Easterly was a retired federal government employee, the Feds are lookin' at the case. She and whoever helped her apparently didn't bother to think far enough past their greedy guts," Mike answered. "Turns out her nephew, Keith Turner, was helping out with the caregiving. When Easterly expired during his bath, it was his idea to keep him on ice."

"He also made sure to keep him packed in enough ice," Jo added.

"Well, even though what they did sucks, at least he was out of his misery," Lucas said quietly. "Gone off to a better place, leaving us mere mortals behind. Right, Henry?"

Henry was temporarily caught off guard by Lucas' out-of-character eloquent remarks but slightly curious as to why he seemed to have singled him out for a reply. He slowly turned his head and looked at Lucas, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. He furrowed his brow when met with a look of almost expectancy on Lucas' face. He then shot a quick glance to Jo and stepped away from the autopsy table.

"If nothing else, Detectives?" They both shook their heads.

"Then, I'll be in my office for the remainder of the afternoon finishing up some additional paperwork on a few cases. Lucas, please return Mr. Easterly to the freezer." He smiled briefly at Jo, grateful for the sympathetic look on her face, then turned and walked into his office, closing the door behind him.

Jo excused herself, telling Mike that she had to discuss something else with Henry. After she'd joined him in his office and closed the door, Mike practically stormed around the table to confront Lucas on the other side.

"What was all that about?" he demanded in a whisper. "We don't let him know that we know yet," he reminded him in the same harsh whisper.

"It just ... slipped out," Lucas replied, surprised at the tinge of anger he heard in Mike's voice. "Look, the suspense is killing me," he said, raising his arms and spreading them around and down. "No pun intended," he added. He sighed and averted his eyes from Mike's glare.

In Henry's office ...

He took a few steps in, his legs shaky, and stopped at one of the chairs facing his desk. Closing his eyes and breathing in deeply in order to calm himself, he grasped the back of one of the chairs. Lucas' words echoed across his thoughts: Gone to a better place. The phrase propelled him back to when Hans Koehler, the former Dow chemist responsible for his and 15 other's deaths in the 2014 subway crash, had dealt him a fatal gunshot wound on the rooftop of Grand Central Station a couple of days later.

 _"You're going to a better place," Koehler had gently assured him._

 _"I think not," he had painfully and knowingly replied._

"Are you okay?"

At the sound of Jo's voice, he quickly turned around to face her. He gave her a brave smile and blinked away the mist from his eyes. "Yes, yes, quite. Just, ah ... remembrances calling on me is all."

"And you do have a lot of 'remembrances'," she jokingly pointed out. Her smile softened and she asked, "But there's something else, isn't there?"

He frowned a bit, tilting his head. "It's just that ... ever since our return, I have the distinct feeling that Mike, the Lieutenant, and Lucas - especially Lucas - have evolved into Cheshire cats with each of them having swallowed the proverbial canary." He rubbed his clasped hands together. "Lucas has been making some very strange statements such as a few moments ago. Makes me wonder ... what exactly is on their minds?"

"They've probably grown a new set of questions for you because of the TV show, that's all," Jo speculated.

"Ugh!" he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "That show has become the bane of my existence."

"The price of stardom," she teased, grinning. They both suddenly became aware of how close they were standing next to each other. As delightful as it felt, they both reluctantly took one step back for the sake of maintaining their workplace professionalism. "So, I'll, um, see you later on this evening," she hesitantly reminded him, smiling shyly.

Henry returned her smile and dipped his head, watching her as she left his office. How lucky he was, he told himself, to have Jo in his life, his son, his work, his friends, and colleagues ... no better place to be in right now.

Jo exited Henry's office and re-entered the morgue. She noticed Lucas' almost apologetic stance under Mike's glare. Before she could question either of them, they both quickly rearranged their features, flashing less than genuine smiles at her.

"Everything OK?" she asked Mike when he fell into step beside her as they left the morgue.

"Oh, sure, sure, just a difference of opinion over who's going to the Superbowl this year," he blatantly lied. "Uh, everything OK with the Doc?" he asked in an effort to deflect attention away from Lucas and him.

"Um, yeah, fine. Just ... needed to remind him to get help from Lucas on attaching documentation to his emails, that's all." She swallowed after her own blatant lie, now realizing that Henry might have valid concerns regarding their three colleagues hiding something. But her guilt at having just lied to her official NYPD partner prevented her from calling him to the mat on the lie he had just tossed at her. They rode the elevator up to their floor in silence, polite smiles plastered on their faces. They both breathed a sigh of relief as they exited the elevator and walked quickly across the bullpen to their respective desks.

After several minutes of trying and failing to concentrate on answering emails or whatever paperwork was on their desks, their detective spirits soon got the better of them both. Jo swiveled to her right in her chair to face Mike, at the same time that he threw his pen down.

"You and I need to talk," she told him with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah. I know," he replied resignedly.

"I'm glad you both agree," a familiar female voice announced. They both drew in a long breath and let it out as they became aware of their superior, Lt. Reece, standing near their desks. "My office," she quietly but strongly instructed them. As they quickly rose from their seats to comply, she told them, "Dr. Morgan and his assistant will be joining us."

Here we go, Hanson, thought to himself. Showtime.


	25. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 25 Finale Pt 1

_"You and I need to talk," Jo told Mike._

 _"Yeah. I know," Mike replied._

 _"I'm glad you both agree." Lt. Reece stood near their desks. "My office," she quietly instructed them, adding, "Dr. Morgan and Lucas will be joining us."_

vvvv

Henry eyed the additional paperwork in the wooden inbox on his desk; he hadn't lied about that. And, of course, it was important but he realized that it really could wait. Besides, his mind just wasn't focused on it right now. His brow knitted as he recalled some of the puzzling statements Lucas had made since morning up until a few moments ago. In addition, he was sure that Lucas' _Gone to a better place_ mini-eulogy had caused Mike to cringe and anger to fleetingly cloud his face as his eyes had shot daggers at Lucas. Why? he wondered.

And Lieutenant Reece having given him an uncharacteristically stilted greeting that morning. Not that her usual greetings had been particularly warm (more professional and cordial). But there was something in her eyes that hadn't been there before; as if she'd been... considering something about him. At the time, he'd dismissed her odd behaviour as simply being a part of everyone else's startruck silliness. But, no, the Lieutenant could never be described as acting silly. What, he pondered, was on her mind? What was she _hiding_? The irony was not lost on the Immortal ME in that he felt this must be a little like what others went through when searching for reasons behind his own evasive responses and guarded behaviour. Understandably, a bit annoying, he had to admit.

A glance at the time on his desk phone's display was part of an effort to train himself to utilize some of the simpler technology around him but he quickly succumbed to checking the time on his pocket watch, realizing that that was going to be a hard habit to break. Placing the watch back into his vest pocket, he at least realized that he now referred to it as a vest instead of a waist coat. Realizing that both he and Lucas had less than an hour before their 3 o'clock meeting in Lt. Reece's office, he set to work completing the additional paperwork with a ballpoint pen. After a thought, he placed the fancy, gold-plated inkpen back into its holder on the deskset and dove into the paperwork with the antiquated writing tools, quillpen and inkwell, he was more accustomed to using. No need to rush this self-retraining, he told himself. There's always tomorrow. Yes, he told himself, he had a forever of tomorrows.

vvvv

"Please. Be seated," Lt. Reece told Jo and Mike, motioning to the sofa at the back of her office. They awkwardly seated themselves but kept their eyes on her as she grabbed one of the chairs that usually faced her desk, and sat down in it. She leaned forward, her hands clasped together in her lap, and smiled at Jo. She then exchanged a knowing look with Mike and they both took in and released a deep breath at the same time.

The exchange was not lost on Jo. Her detective's radar told her that something was up with her two colleagues.

"Martinez," Reece began, then smiled, softening her tone. "Jo. How was your London trip?"

Jo was somewhat surprised at her boss' question. She'd assumed that this meeting was going to be work-related but, hmmm, they'd hardly ever sat on that sofa in Reece's office. "Um, the flight was a bit of a challenge for me," she replied with a nervous laugh. "First time for me, you know, but everything else was very nice."

Reece nodded, tilting her head. "Learn anything new while you were over there?"

A frown fought to overtake her features as she wondered where this line of questioning _\- line of questioning? -_ was going. She felt oddly on the hot seat right now. "Oh, just the normal new stuff when you visit a foreign country for the first time," she smiled her reply.

"How about before you left?" Reece pushed on.

"I don't ... know what you mean," Jo replied, still fighting against a frown of worry.

Reece looked down at her clasped hands then back up at Jo. "Did you learn anything new about our Dr. Morgan?"

It was the way she'd said _our_ that set her on edge. "I still don't," she laughed nervously, "know what you mean?" She swallowed, not intending for it to have come out as a question but her nerves were beginning to jangle now.

"You checked out a certain box from the Evidence Lockup a couple of weeks before you left on your trip. The same box that Mike and I checked out, independently of each other, later on. And I understand that Lucas Wahl also checked it out. It seems that we all had questions; most likely, some of the same questions about our secretive ME and that subway crash. Did a certain set of images on the VHS tape in that box shed more light on his life than you bargained for?"

Yes, that and what he'd shared with her earlier about his long life, she admitted to herself. Jo sat up a bit straighter, her large, brown, almond-shaped eyes trained on the Lieutenant but studying Mike in her peripheral vision. "Like what?" she managed, going for nonchalant.

Reece explained to her about the images of Henry boarding the now infamous subway car that had crashed three years ago, killing all 15 people aboard, and no image of him exiting the train before that. The Lieutenant paused but kept her gaze trained on Jo. She didn't want to come off as going for the jugular, which she wasn't, but felt the need to get to the point. "Henry was the 16th but uncounted victim, wasn't he?"

Jo's breathing halted momentarily at those words, resuming in shudders. She wanted to protest but didn't know how to respond. Wasn't sure if she even _should_ respond. Henry had been right when he said he suspected they were hiding something. She hadn't been prepared for it to be this, though. That they had figured it out about him and his condition. But why was she being confronted with their findings instead of him? She was painfully aware that she might be forced to make a choice as to where her loyalty lay. Henry, of course, would win hands down - he and Abe. A fierceness rose in her chest, enlivening every instinct in her to protect him and his son. However, still unsure of what to say, she remained silent and continued to listen.

"We're quite sure that Dr. Morgan somehow," Reece paused, shaking her head, "returned to life only minutes later, several miles away in the East River," she continued. The fact that the poor man had then been arrested and jailed overnight for public nudity was like having had insult added to injury, she sadly realized. But there was little solace to be found in knowing that nobody even imagined back then that he had been murdered only minutes before and returned to life in the frigid waters.

"I can only speak for myself when I say that my curiosity was piqued by the TV show," she confessed. "But I'm sure that both Mike's and Lucas' reasons for further investigating the subway crash case couldn't have been much different."

She tilted her head and asked, "What are you thinking, Detective? We know that you also checked out the same box from the Evidence Room. You had to have reached the same conclusions before we did."

Jo lowered her eyes but remained silent. Reece looked at Mike, who cleared his throat and placed his hand on Jo's shoulder.

"Jo, we all think that the Doc is a good guy," he reassured her. "We don't understand all this but just wanna let him ... and you know that ... that ... we're all here for ya," Mike told her in all sincerity. "We're here for ya both," he reiterated.

His words, well-intentioned as they were, still alarmed her. Looking desperately from one to the other, then at the closed door, she wished she could just jump up and run out of there. Although they were telling her that Henry's secret would be safeguarded by them, she couldn't help but wonder if the Feds had aslo gotten wind of Henry through this darn TV show as he feared might happen? Was he going to be deported - or worse - imprisoned in some secret government location and relentlessly experimented on in order to unlock the secret of his immortality? She now had only one thought: to get to Henry. Quick. She suddenly rose and walked quickly to the door.

"I've - I'm sorry, I've - got to get out of here," she told them. She had to get to Henry. Worried, Reece and Mike rose up and followed after her, voicing their concerns for her in unison.

"I've just got to get out of here," she told them again. Get to Henry. Warn him. Her heart was pounding in her ears as she opened the door and found herself face-to-face with Henry and Lucas on the other side of the door. The room spun and her legs gave way before the darkness overtook her.

Jo collapsed into Henry's unexpecting arms. He picked her up and carried her over to the leather sofa at the back of Reece's office, Mike clearing a path for them by moving the chairs aside. Henry gently laid her down on the sofa. When she didn't respond to him calling her name, he looked over his shoulder at Lucas and instructed him to bring the Spirit of Hartshorn from the medicine chest.

"Spirit ... uh ... ?" Lucas asked, confused.

Henry closed his eyes, regretting his mistake in having used the unfamiliar term with them. But it had been a familiar term during the Victorian era.

"He means smelling salts, Lucas," Mike clarified. "Told ya," he explained in response to everyone's surprised looks. "I watch a lot of History Channel."

"Back in a sec, Doc," Lucas said and hurriedly left to retrieve them.

Henry turned his attention back to Jo. Soon he felt a hand pat on his right shoulder and he looked over to find the Lieutenant holding a paper cup of water out to him. He looked up questioningly at her, curious to know what had just upset Jo so much. But he took the cup with his left hand and nodded a quick thanks. Instead of trying to make her sip from the cup, though, he took out a neatly-folded handkerchief from his inside pocket and dipped it in the water. He then dabbed the wet cloth over her pale face and neck. The coolness of the water on the cloth caused her to stir. He dabbed the beads of sweat from her brow and whispered her name again. He quickly removed his suit jacket and held out his hand to Mike, who nodded, quickly removing his and handing it to Henry. Henry balled both of them up and used them to elevate Jo's legs. He then wet the handkerchief some more and dabbed it again on her face and neck. He vigorously rubbed her hands between his two hands. Her shallow breathing as well as the coldness of her hands alarmed him and he continued to rub them until he felt the warmth return to them.

"Here ya go, Doc," Lucas said, holding out the smelling salts to him. Henry quickly took one of the small, packaged inhalants, crushed it, and moved it back and forth under Jo's nose.

"Jo. Jo, wake up," he whispered, pleading.

Her eyelids flew open and her head jerked forward at the same time as she coughed and sputtered a few times. Finally, she closed her eyes again and lay back, taking in deep breaths. She nodded a couple of times when Henry told her that she would be fine and to just rest and breath deeply for a few minutes. He stood up and looked sternly at Reece and Mike. Not even Lucas had ever seen that look on his face before.

"Would **either** of you mind telling me just what the _**devil**_ has been going on in here?" he demanded from under a dark scowl, his fists on his hips. Surprised at his own anger, he instantly regretted raising his voice at them for he counted them as friends, after all. But his rooster comb was up and if this had anything to do with them trying to satisfy their curiosity about either the TV show - or about him, God forbid - by bombarding Jo, his Jo, with a bunch of silly questions, well ... his anger was justified. Their questions or comments had obviously troubled her to point of her attempting to flee from their presence, he concluded. But what questions or comments had they leveled at her?

Startled, both the Lieutenant and the Detective felt the weight of Henry's years over theirs and temporarily shrank from him as if they were two misbehaving children about to be disciplined by their elder. Reece's confidence level slowly returned, allowing her to mentally regain her awareness that she was the in-charge authority figure.

"We were having a discussion," she calmly explained. "We wanted to try to understand a few things before speaking with you." She was outwardly calm and truly concerned about Jo and Henry's reaction. She didn't want to scare either of them away and certainly meant no harm to either of them. Her attempt at the subtle approach appeared to have backfired, much to her dismay.

"Is this about that _blasted_ television show?" He flung his arms up and down in exasperation.

"Easy, Doc," Mike said. "We didn't mean to scare her." He watched Jo as she slowly began to sit up. Henry quickly turned around and helped her into a sitting position. "You okay, partner?" Mike asked, concerned.

She looked uncertainly up at him and Reece, then at Henry. She swallowed and replied, "I'm awake. I'm okay." But she was unable to hide the worry in her eyes.

Henry sat down next to her and took one of her hands in his, squeezing it. "Jo. Please tell me what's wrong. What has upset you so?" he gently asked, a mixture of concern and confusion on his face.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to speak. "Henry, they weren't asking me about the TV show," her voice shaky and whispery. "I couldn't answer any of their questions because ... it's not my place to answer them." She pressed her lower lip up against her top lip and gazed intently into his eyes.

Henry's frown deepened along with his growing confusion as he studied her, then it hit him. His features smoothed out and he blinked his widening eyes several times, finally looking up at each of their three colleagues. "I see," is all he said.

Jo now squeezed _his_ hand as she held it. "They know ... certain things," she cautiously told him.

"Yes, I gathered as much," he tersely replied. He stared straight ahead and began to rapidly blink his eyes, swallowing several times. "Lucas?"

"Yeah, Henry?" Lucas replied, bending down closer to him.

"Would you mind ... awfully ... breaking out those ... smelling salts again?"

vvvv

Thankfully, he didn't faint and the smelling salts helped to eliminate the lightheadedness that had threatened to overtake him. Now if only they could take care of his legs that felt jerky and alive with nervous twitches. He was also thankful that he'd already been seated before the lightheadedness had come upon him. Resting against the sofa's back cushions, he covered his eyes and forehead with one hand. "What ... certain things?" he wearily asked.

"That you're an Im-MORT-al!" Lucas ecstatically blurted out. When met with Henry's wide-eyed look of horror and the annoyed glares of the other three, he muttered, "What? I've been waiting all week to say that." He felt it wiser to retreat to one of the chairs on the other side of the room. "Sorry," he said, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head as he sat down.

Henry leaned forward and held his head in his hands while Mike angrily pointed out to Lucas that they had been going for subtle but oh, no, here he comes bargin' in with his blurt bus. Reece and Jo, at first annoyed and surprised at Lucas' unceremonious announcement, smiled weakly and urged Mike to calm down.

"No, no, no, Mike, it's okay," Henry said, straightening up and dropping his hand from his face. "I'm the one who should apologize." He stood up, his legs feeling more normal now, and walked closer to Lucas. With a smile of embarrassment on his face and his hands shoved down into his pockets, he turned to face them all.

"Yes. I am an Immortal," he reluctantly admitted and he couldn't believe he was actually doing that. "And ... I know that you all have questions as a result of obtaining this new information about me but ... for obvious reasons, I cannot comfortably discuss any of this in public." He paused, then added, "Not even here in your office, Lieutenant."

His lop-sided grin appeared as a bidding war ensued about whose residence would be turned into Morgan Central for a Q&A with their Immortal ME. Seated once again next to Jo, he crossed his arms and sat back, somewhat amused at the scene playing out in front of him. The issue was settled when Jo announced that they should gather at her place, date and time to be announced later, to which they all agreed.

"Where it all began," she reminded Henry, a tender smile exchanged between them.

Jo stood up with Henry when they became aware of a hunched-over, gleeful Lucas creeping towards him with outstretched arms.

"Heyyy, c'mere, Big Guyyy," Lucas beckoned him. Reece and Mike stepped in between them, blocking his approach, allowing the couple to leave her office admist Lucas' protests.

As they left the office and approached Jo's desk, he leaned closer to her and asked if she truly felt well enough to continue working. She assured him that she did. "Besides, it's only a couple more hours until we're off." Looking back at the door to Reece's office, she grinned and warned him, "He'll get you sooner or later, you know."

"Let's hope later than sooner," he replied, bugging his eyes. He pursed his lips and turned away, heading back to the morgue until quitting time.

vvvv

The remainder of the week was a slow buildup to the first part of the series' finale. Henry's now high profile had proven irksome at times, but he was managing to cope with strangers and co-workers, known and unknown, requesting selfies with him. Naturally, he'd politely refused, determined to avoid photographic immortalization. Usually, he was met with polite disappointment from the requestor but more than a few times had found himself the recipient of foul language and gestures from strangers that would make sailors blush.

It hadn't been any easier for Abe. The shop was now a tourist attraction. At first, he was encouraged by the increased foot traffic outside the shop for many had ventured inside. More paying customers were always welcome. But the increase in customers brought an increase in the volume of mundane but required paperwork on his part. He was seriously thinking of hiring someone from a temp agency to help out on the sales floor and someone else to handle the phones and Internet sales. He was grateful for the shop's newfound popularity resulting in increased sales but he was worried. Worried about Dad. What if there were unsavory sorts out there, including the government, who were putting 2 and 2 together and coming up with their own private number that equaled trouble for his immortal father?

He rang up the latest sale and shooed the rest of the customers out of the shop, flipping the sign to Closed and locking the door. Maybe remain closed for the rest of the day to give himself a breather? He'd decide later, he told himself, but for now he felt that an early and extended lunch was long overdue.

It was a rare treat for him to have his father home with him on a regular workday. They had discussed in bits and pieces the group conversation a few days earlier in Lt. Reece's office when she and Mike had revealed to Jo and him, their knowledge of his condition. It was gratifying to know that trustworthy comrades would be there for Dad now and in the future.

"Closing the shop up early, Abraham?" Henry asked as he ambled up behind Abe, hands shoved down into his pockets, an easy smile on his face.

"Yup," Abe replied. He turned around and motioned toward the stairs. "C'mon, let's go eat lunch." Actually, leftover lamb's stew from last night's dinner. They ate the delicious meal while discussing the events of the past several weeks and especially the "reveal" meeting in Reece's office.

"I'm really proud of you, Pops," Abe said after their meal and kitchen cleanup. "You didn't run for the hills after you were outed."

Henry smiled and sat down on the couch in the sitting area, appearing to be in a pensive mood to Abe.

"What's on your mind, Pops?"

"Oh, just thinking about the upcoming engagement at Jo's place."

Abe studied him for a moment. "Regretting you agreed to it?"

"No, far from it, Abraham," he replied. "Oddly enough ... looking forward to it."

"Well, great, great," Abe said with a grin. "And, eh, can I come, too?" he asked with all the nervous eagerness of an eight-year-old.

Henry's laughter bellowed from him. "Of course, Abraham." He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "Why, telling my long story would mean nothing without you being there." He smiled softly, lowering his voice. "You and your mother, and Jo have each made my long life worthwhile."

They conversed pleasantly for the remainder of the afternoon, exploring topics from their London trip and Lord Henry's miraculous healing, to the reveal meeting in Reece's office and the upcoming Q&A session, to their newfound celebrity status and how to deal with it. Especially Henry. Dark glasses for Henry? Remembering again that they'd missed the last part of Episode 5, they placed it on the agenda for them to be brought up to speed during the Q&A.

vvvv

The group had gathered at Jo's Washington Heights home three hours before the airing of Part 1 of the series finale. The livingroom, though not large, still had enough seating to comfortably accommodate Abe, Henry, and Jo on the long sofa, Mike and Reece in the armchairs and Lucas on the oversized ottoman. The latter three were finally able to unbridle their enthusiasm over finding out that the guy who cuts up their dead bodies could (so far) never become one. Surprisingly, Reece was the one who'd seemed to have the most questions and Mike, for the most part, nodded in agreement as she'd asked them.

Henry had provided answers as honestly and as thoroughly as he could. If they sensed some of his memories were too painful, they backed off. His father's involvement with the international slave trade; his first death and rebirth; his first wife's betrayal; his imprisonment and eventual escape by suicide; abandonment by his second wife and not learning of her decades-old death until 30 years later. It was apparent to them that he'd suffered the loss of many family members and the few friends he'd ever made but Abigail's had been an immeasurable loss to him.

"Good gosh, Henry," Reece whispered as she recalled the Belinda Smoot cold case in Tarrytown that had led them to the shallow grave and bones of Abe's mother, the woman called Sylvia Blake. "She was actually Abigail. And ... you two kept the truth of her identity to yourselves for fear of exposing Henry's condition. So sorry," she said as she looked at Abe and him.

"I don't know what to say," Mike said. "Had to have been rough on you both ... " his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. "Said this probably hundreds of times in the line of duty but I'm _truly_ sorry for your loss." Lucas bent forward, nodding, with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on his thighs.

The group exchanged pained smiles and the silence that settled on the room as everyone called up their individual memories of that time, seemed also to serve as a silent observance in honor of Abigail's life and passing. Then the question came up of how exactly Henry knew to order the employee files from St. Timothy's Medical Center in Tarrytown where she'd worked just before her death.

"Ah ... well ... I didn't know," he stammered out a confused reply. His eyes darted back and forth then rested on Abe, who shrugged and shook his head. "But I would have had to sign the request ... " His voice trailed off as he shifted his gaze from Abe to Lucas.

Lucas squirmed uncomfortably under Henry's probing gaze. He looked at Abe whose eyes were as big as saucers, now realizing that something not-so-legal may have been done to get his mother's employee records. Lucas opened his mouth to speak then shut it as he looked around at the others. He cleared his throat as Henry leveled a squinty I-Know-What-You-Did look at him.

Abe, sensing that Lucas was being left to twist in the wind, spoke up. "Look, uh, uh, I went to Lucas for help and, and, and, and he helped." He looked around at the others and asked, "What difference does it make now how he did it?"

First removing that pugio from Evidence Lockup against Jo's instructions and giving it to Henry. That had thankfully been smoothed over by her so that he and Henry could keep their jobs. But forging his signature on the request form? Holy handcuffs, Batman!

Reece, slightly amused, gazed sympathetically at Lucas and reassured him that her eyes and ears were now off duty. It was okay to share with them how he managed to pull off obtaining Abigail's records from St. Timothy's.

The group waited while Lucas gathered both his words and his courage. He felt it best to give them a demonstration. His posture straightened and an air of superiority settled on his features while holding the receiver of an imaginery phone up to his ear.

"Ahem, yes, this is Dawk-tuh Henry Moe-gahn, speaking," he began. He continued although the group (except Henry) broke out into loud guffaws at his exaggerated British phonetics. "I'm cawling to place a request for awl of the - "

"Lucas. Lucas. Lucas," Henry interrupted, shaking his head in mock sadness. The group's laughter died down somewhat and Henry lowered his head, remembering that troubled time. Under raised eyebrows, he smiled at Lucas and quietly thanked him, though, for what he'd done or else he and Abe might still be in the dark as to her fate.

"One ... bit of advice, though," he began, clasping his hands in his lap and rolling his shoulders back. "Put less emphasis on each syllable. Calls undue attention to the fact that it is not your native accent. Also allows the words to flow more freely." He ended with a smile and a quick wink, to which Lucas nodded, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Say, Doc," Mike began. "I've been meaning to ask you about that case with the pugio dagger. You were really acting weird, uh, agitated at the time. What was up with that?" Henry stiffened and the mirth left his face. Mike frowned when he saw Jo and Abe stiffen, as well.

Reece, sensing that this was yet another dark area of the ME's life, felt it best to run interference for him. "Sounds like a discussion best left for another time. If and when the good doctor cares to share, I'll be ready to listen." She smiled softly and Mike gave a slight shrug as Henry, Jo, and Abe visibly relaxed.

Abe, feeling thankful that Dad wouldn't have to make another painful disclosure (or admit to more illegal activity), felt it was now time to be updated on what the three of them had missed of the last episode. Lucas happily filled them in.

vvvv

Episode 5 of "The Morgan Chronicles" ended with ...

 _A passenger ship as it sailed closer to the Statue of Liberty. The passengers crowded along the edge of the ship's railing. One passenger was a well-dressed Englishman with a pencil-thin mustache. He slowly removed his bowler hat and his owlish eyes opened even wider with wonder as they took in the New York shoreline of the new country he would now call home._

/

Series Finale, Episode 6, Part 1 ...

The 1897 New York shoreline gradually fades away, and that of 1929's fades in. The camera pulls the viewers toward and over the buildings and downward into the streets where a sea of panic-stricken people scurry along the sidewalks and in and out of the streets, dodging cars driven by even more panic-stricken drivers.

"EK-stree, EK-stree, Read all about it!" rises up from busy street corners yelled by flat-capped young newsboys in knickers held up by suspenders over long-sleeved white shirts.

The frenzied scene unfolds as if the viewers are peering over the left shoulder of a smartly-dressed, dark-haired man in a fedora who makes his way through the crowd over to a newsboy. The boy expertly whips out a paper to the man and grasps the bill he hands him. Before he can make change, the man quickly walks away with the paper. The boy's eyes nearly pop out of his head when he realizes how large the bill is. He looks up to thank the man but the crowd has swallowed him up.

"Zow-wee. A whole $20!" He stuffs the bill down into the side of one of his hightop shoes and resumes the sale of his papers with renewed vigor in the hopes of getting another big tip from an overly-generous customer.

The big tipper - the camera still following behind him - eventually comes to stop in front of a building ten floors taller than the 120-floored Empire State Building. He unfolds his newspaper to reveal the headline to the viewers: **WALL ST. LAYS EGG!** The Stock Market has just crashed, turning many investors into instant paupers. He mutely eyes the large letters emblazoned on the outside of the building (the camera leaves his eyes and zooms in on the words THE MORGAN BUILDING). He then cranes his neck back to take in it's towering grandeur. The camera switches back to a closeup of his unmistakable eyes and then follows his line of vision to give viewers a look at the building's facade, lifting them upward as if in an aerial elevator, outside a large window in the penthouse offices.

A well-dressed woman in her late 70's eyes the confused humanity below from the large window on the inside of her son's office. She shakes her head and turns away from the dismaying scene. She frowns at her son, Raymond Morgan, pacing back and forth in front of his large, mahogany wood desk.

"Raymond, please stop that infernal pacing. You're making me nervous," she implores him, the remnants of a British accent in her voice, although for the past more than 40 years she, Anne Raymond Morgan, has called America home. "And I don't understand what's got you all worked up. You said that your money and the company are safe because you cashed in your portfolio more than a month ago." She waits for his reply that never comes. He continues his worried pacing.

"What exactly is troubling you, Raymond?" she asks in a softer, more caring tone.

"Mother," he scoffs, running a hand down the back of his plastered down hair. "Nothing makes _you_ nervous. Even before father died 18 years ago, you have been at the helm of our cargo lines."

"Your father always knew exactly what to do to keep this business afloat," she replies in defense of her late husband.

"Yes, and he knew exactly what to do as long as the _two_ of you kept your heads together," he reminds her. "Thought I didn't know, did you?" he asks, smiling at her. He grasps her hand in both of his and pats it. Then the worry spreads across his face again.

"It's different this time, Mother." He lowers his eyes from her sympathetic gaze. "I may have been able to pull our finances from out of the proverbial fire, but our suppliers, investors, not to mention most of our customers, were not so foresighted as to follow my advice." He shook his head and sat down on the edge of the desk. "What good is it to have found a lifeline while practically everyone else is perishing?"

"We'll .. find ... other investors," she replies hestitantly. "Other business ventures to invest in."

"Such as?" he scornfully demands.

"You're not the only one who possessed the foresight to sell their holdings before this awful day," she points out. "Your Uncle Jeffrey, for one."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "No offense, Mother, but father's twin brother with his sorry string of fishing vessels in Nova Scotia are hardly my idea of a viable investment opportunity."

"Raymond!" She clasps her hands in front of her, surprised at what she feels are disrespectful remarks. "Your Uncle Jeffrey Morgan has always looked out for you! And you wasted no time taking his advice to sell your stock!" she sternly reminds him.

"Yes, yes," he wearily agrees, nodding. "Advice he simply passed on to me from Joseph Kennedy's former chauffeur." He smirks, crossing his arms across his chest.

She drops her arms by her sides, glaring disdainfully at him. "Whatever the source, it served you well. Jeffrey may have other valuable advice for you," she ventures.

"Mother," Raymond grumbles and leans over to press the intercom button on the desk in reply to its buzzing. "Yes, Evelyn."

 _("There's a private investigator named Erin Collins from the Warne Investigation Agency here to see you, Mr. Morgan.")_

"Thank you. Please send him in." Releasing the intercom button, he straightens up just as a beautiful young woman enters the office. When Raymond sees her, he almost stops breathing. Confirmed bachelor that he is, it nevertheless feels to him as if her warm, blue eyes are melting his heart. Wisps of her golden hair peek out from under her Cloche hat. She holds an envelope in her slim fingers and the sunlight dances across her light pink nail polish. Time seems to slow down as she bats her long, dark eyelashes. When their eyes meet, her face lights up and for a second, blinds him with her sheer beauty. Her sleek legs glide her confidently across the floor toward him with squared shoulders, her goal clearly in mind. He stands tongue-tied as they finally come face-to-face. Her rose red lips move slowly, forming words he is neither prepared for nor anticipates. When he fails to immediately respond, she withdraws her outstretched hand and fingers the lapel of her winter-weight, wool dress coat topped with a dressy, squirrel-fur collar.

"Raymond," his mother admonishes him, "where are your manners?" Turning her attention to the young woman, she says, "Please be seated, Miss Collins." As the young woman seats herself, Raymond's mother moves behind the other chair next to her and watches amusedly as her son awkwardly but quickly seats himself behind his desk.

"Forgive me, Miss Collins, er, I was expecting - "

"A man. I know," she replies knowingly. "My first name of Erin and the fact that I am also a private detective, lends to the constant misunderstanding. But my given name gets me in the door and once my ... our ... clients realize how they benefit from my services, they quickly recover from their initial shock." She pushes an envelope across the desk toward him.

He picks it up and begins opening it. "This is the information you were hired to obtain for me on Dr. Henry Morgan?"

She nods. "It's all in there. At least ... all that was available."

He frowns as he reads the one-page document and studies the small headshot photo that accompanies it. He lowers the documents to look at her, confusion on his face. "I don't understand. All the money that I paid for your agency's services to locate this man and this is all I get? A forwarding address? A lockbox, no less. Information that I already have!" Exasperated, he shoves the documents back into the envelope.

"A generous portion of the salvaged proceeds belongs to him," he explains to Investigator Collins. "I like to think that I'm a shrewd businessman but not a thief."

"But you have his explicit instructions on how and where to forward his portion and NOT to search for him," his mother reminds him. "What is this unfathomable obsession with him? Why do you need to meet with him? None of your previous business ventures with him have been conducted in person and the results have always boded well for both of you."

"Which is odd when you think about it," he replies. "There's something to be said for seeing your business partners in the flesh. According to my information, he's not only a doctor but a world traveler and brilliant linguist. I'd simply like to meet the man face-to-face. Is that so difficult to understand?" he askes, spreading his arms.

"Well, it's apparent that he doesn't _want_ to be found," his mother retorts, obviously flustered with her son. "Why can't you at least respect the man's wishes and just send him his money? We don't need anymore problems such as lawsuits right now."

"This is certainly frustrating. He's proven to be more elusive than I anticipated," the female investigator sadly admits. "A hard nut to crack, for sure. Failure is not something that I'm used to." A soft smile tugs at her lips as she locks her gaze with his. "However, I would welcome any ideas you might have on how to proceed further. Say ... over dinner?" she proposes, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

Surprised but delighted at her forwardness, he struggles to hide his smile. "Well, I think that can be arranged. Would tonight be agreeable with you?" She smiles her reply and the two become lost in each other's eyes. Neither of them notices when Raymond's mother begins to leave the office, realizing, hoping, that she has probably witnessed a love-at-first-sight meeting between her son and this lovely, lady detective.

Raymond finally pulls his gaze away from Erin's just in time to see his mother exiting his office. ' _My mother. Ever the matchmaker,' he laughingly thinks to himself_. But this time, he acknowledges, she just may soon celebrate the end of his bachelorhood.

The scene advances to the spring of 1932 when Raymond Morgan and Erin Collins wed in an elaborate ceremony with all of the trappings of high society. He has successfully held onto his fortune and it grows substantially through the decades with investments in chiefly the automobile and aerospace industries and something called charcoal briquettes. Their joint effort to locate the elusive Dr. Henry Morgan has proven more daunting a task than either had anticipated. And, though never abandoning the hope of locating him and meeting him face-to-face, the activities of their busy lives forces them to relegate that concern to the bottom of their priorities.

Images that rolled one after the other across the screen found the couple after six years of marriage, all but having given up hope of ever having children when they happily welcome twin girls in 1938, and name them Eleanor and Eileen. Two years later, a son, Raymond, Jr., is born. The family spends prosperous years in New York, usually vacationing near the family's vineyards in the south of France, or in the stately family manor in London.

In the spring of 1947 Eileen is admitted to New York's Presbyterian Hospital to have her tonsils removed. A post-surgery infection delays her discharge from the hospital and her surgeon consults with another physician on staff before proceeding further. He is a young, British doctor with kind eyes and a comforting bedside manner. The camera follows his shiny black shoes and the lower part of his crisply-creased black trousers as he walks down a corridor and enters the girl's room. The camera zooms slowly in on her and her face lights up when it seems he is approaching her bedside.

"And how are we feeling today, Miss ... Miss ... oh, what is your name?" he teases, grabbing her chart and scouring it for her name. She laughs at him while he bugs his eyes and rifles through the pages of her chart. A big grin spreads across his face when he seems to find it. "Of course! Ellen."

"Noooo, Eileen," she giggles and giggles more when he frowns and brings the chart up close to his face.

"Aha!" He lowers the chart with an apologetic look on his face. "How could I have made such a stupid mistake. Ei-LEEN," he draws out, bowing deeply.

A pretty, blonde nurse in a starched white uniform that brought out her sparking, crystal-blue eyes, enters the room. "You've been warned before, Dr. Morgan, not to forget patients' names. It upsets them terribly." She frowns at him but winks and smiles at Eileen who continues to giggle.

Eileen likes the sound of the couple's British accents and tells them that they remind her of her grandparents' accents. When the nurse politely asks their names, the girl replies, "Grandpapa and Grandmama." The nurse and doctor both chuckle at that and Eileen grins back at them. Getting back to business, the medical duo check and document Eileen's progress toward regaining full health.

"My parents should be here any moment," she happily reports. "You can finally meet them." Before either can react or speak, the door to her room opens and a man and woman enter in an anxious but controlled rush. "Mummy! Daddy!" Eileen greets them, sitting up on her elbows. "I'm so happy you're here. You can meet my new doctor, the nice one, and the nice nurse I've been telling you about."

The parents, Raymond and Erin Morgan, focus mainly on their daughter and the nurse and doctor step back to allow them closer access to her. They exchange kisses and hugs then Raymond turns to speak to the doctor. Smiling broadly, he nods politely at the nurse and thanks her. His eyes drop to read her name tag (the camera shows a closeup of it): Abigail Morgan, R.N. _'Hmmm. What a coincidence,' he thinks._ He turns toward the doctor and his broad smile freezes on his face. The 1929 headshot photo of the elusive Dr. Henry Morgan flashes before him, temporarily obscuring the doctor.

"Daddy?" Eileen's voice effectively wipes out the called up image from his memory. He turns quickly toward the direction of her voice to see her staring questioningly at him. "It's impolite to stare, you always tell us," she chidingly reminds him. He nods, steals a quick glance at his wife, Erin, whose expression reflects his own astonishment. She nods almost imperceptibly at him and keeps her eyes on him, coaxing her smile back onto her face. He pulls his smile back together and turns to face the doctor again, lowering his eyes to his name tag: Henry Morgan, M.D.

"Uh, Doctor," he slowly begins, "are you related, by any chance, to the Dr. Henry Morgan that I once did business with a few years prior to the stock market crash of 1929? Of course, I only have a photograph to remember him by, never having had the pleasure of meeting him - "

"Yes, yes, that was my, ah, my Uncle Henry. I'm actually named after him," he smilingly informs him.

"Never could catch up with him, world traveler that he was." Raymond recalls. "Is he still living?"

"As far as I know, he's still living," the doctor tells him. "He still ... travels ... from time to time."

"That's very gratifying to know that he chooses to remain active," Raymond tells him. "Wish that I could have sat down and had just a few moments of his time, though," he laments. "I've often wondered if he and, you, for that matter, are related to my Morgan family?"

The doctor appears to flinch at the question but quickly responds in the negative. "Not to my knowledge," he replies. Glancing at the nurse, he clears his throat and changes the subject to their daughter's improved condition with the help of penicillin to fight the infection and that she could be discharged the next day. The parents, relieved and thankful, lose themselves in their plans to finally bring their daughter home. The doctor and the nurse bid them all goodbye and leave the room.

"Bears an uncanny resemblance to his uncle, doesn't he?" Raymond shares with Erin. "If I didn't know better, I'd say they were the same man."

Erin scoffs and replies, "That would mean the man is some sort of phantom who lives an unaging existence!" She laughs and declares, "Something that is utterly impossible." Raymond smiles and nods his head in agreement.

The scene switches to the doctor and the nurse now standing in the hospital corridor outside Eileen's room. They face each other and share a wordless exchange. The nurse, Abigail, places her hand briefly on his cheek and turns to walk away. He quickly grabs her wrist and brings the back of her hand up to his lips and kisses it. Abigail smiles lovingly and turns and walks in the direction of the nurses' station. He smiles lovingly after her as he watches her retreat. His smile appears to exhibit a tinge of regret and his eyes fail to hide a weariness in them. The camera pulls away from him, propelling the viewers backward. He appears smaller and smaller at the end of the corridor and he and his surroundings disappear into an indistinguishable blur as he walks away from the camera.

vvvv

Information on the first U.S. female private eye and the Kate Warne Investigating Agency gleaned fromt he Internet

1920's fashions gleaned from the Internet

Scottish scientist Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin, the world's first effective antibiotics, in 1928.


	26. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 26 Finale Pt 1A

"How about that?" Lucas chuckled. "Another Morgan man falling under the spell of a hot, lady detective."

Henry tilted his head to the side and smiled. He then looked at Jo, who took in a deep breath and rolled her eyes upward then closed them, shaking her head. The group chortled when Abe said that it was _his_ job to embarrass his father and his girlfriend, not Lucas'. The small group laughed at Henry's mock slow burn as he slid his eyes over in Abe's direction.

"I dare say that I shant be able to escape embarrassing remarks from either of you," he sighed. His gaze dropped to a spot just above his clasped hands in his lap. "Might as well get used to it, I suppose," he told himself resignedly, nodding his head.

"Good!" Abe replied, smiling smugly at him. "'Cause I got a million of 'em. Kids say the darndest things, remember?" The others laughed at the reference to Art Linkletter's 1950's version of a reality TV show but still marveled at the fact that the elderly gent was _Henry's_ kid.

Henry took in a deep breath and slowly looked over at Jo, who collapsed into her grin. With a look of mock weariness on his face, he asked, "Can we please change the subject?"

"Quick question before the commercials end," Mike began, calming the grin on his face. "Are the episodes showing what really happened? All those times you encountered your family members throughout the decades. Happened like that?"

Henry thought for a moment, then replied. "There are certain parts that I remember quite clearly as being accurate. Other parts not so clearly. Perhaps over time I've forgotten some things or never had enough of the pertinent facts at those times. The way my father may have lost control of his shipping company, forcing him to participate in the slave trade," he cited as an example.

"Or the young woman, the medical student, who sought out my place of residence in the East End of London," he cited as another. "I simply have no way of knowing if events truly unfolded in that manner." He thought for a second and then added, "My younger sister, Sarah, not being my father's child. I ... simply have no way of knowing if that were true or not." He went on to share that he'd never known that Nora had had a child until Abe's research had confirmed it. However, he told them, Albert was definitely not his son.

"Once Nora had those men place that straight jacket on me and cart me off to bedlam and she never lifted a finger to help get me out of there ... for all intents and purposes, she and I ceased to be husband and wife." His smile had left his face and his eyes had that faraway look whenever bad memories reared themselves up. He snapped himself out of it, blinking as he looked around at the others.

"Whatever happened to her?" Reece asked. "How, when did she die?"

"Looked like from that one episode that she may have neglected her son while waiting around for you to come back to her," Mike said.

Henry sighed, remembering her downward spiral after having accidentally shot and killed Nurse Anna Peyton instead of him, her intended victim. "She died a lonely death in the very asylum she'd once had me confined to." It was clear from the looks on Reece's, Mike's, and Lucas' faces that they hadn't expected to hear that.

"She ... ah ... had killed someone by accident," he reluctantly explained further, "and she never forgave herself." He felt it best not to elaborate on those details just now.

"Based on the entries in her diary beginning around 1821 and ending in 1864, yes, Mike, she was a disillusioned old woman holding onto the mistaken belief that I, her husband, would forgive her and return to her one day." The bitterness of her betrayal, surprisingly, was now just a memory. Just as his love for Abigail had wiped away most of the bitterness of Nora's betrayal, a renewed heart full of his love for Jo had wiped it away altogether.

"Nora's diary; a gift from my namesake, Lord Henry, along with some long-forgotten family portraits," he told them in answer to their looks of curiosity.

Lucas sat nodding with his lips pulled in, taking in everyone else's conversation.

Sensing that the young man was doing his best to control his tongue but still had burning questions, Henry smiled at him and asked, "Yes, Lucas?"

"Must have been hard coming in contact with your family members and having to deny them in order to maintain your cover," he stated. "Did you think back then that ... Albert might have been your son?"

"No," Henry replied. "I had no doubt then, and, apparently had correctly deduced that he wasn't. Nora being his mother's name was merely coincidental, I'd thought at the time, but ... " he looked at Abe then back at Lucas. "I couldn't help thinking then that ... it would have been nice to be his father." He looked apologetically at Abe again. "Even if I could never tell anyone."

Abe returned his father's apologetic look with a soft smile that told him no apologies were necessary. "Well, he missed out," he said quietly. "Missed out on having a great Dad," he added.

Henry's voice became hostage to the fatherly pride, love, and gratitude that now welled up inside him. In his heart, he felt he had not been such a great father, but if his son felt otherwise, it was only attributable to the fact that he'd been and still was a great son. He placed his hand on the top of Abe's shoulder at the side of his neck and squeezed. The others, aware that he was struggling with his emotions unexpectedly causing them to deal with their own, averted their eyes.

"S'okay, Pops," Abe told him. He reached up and patted Henry's hand. "By the way, how'd you get Nora's diary? Thought it was in that cottage."

Henry managed to blink his tears back and rein in his emotions. "Lord Henry had had it brought to the manor along with the letters and the portraits." His voice sounded a bit raspy so he cleared his throat. "He's going to have them packaged up and shipped to us as soon as he can."

Abe eyed the TV that showed the last of the commercials ending and the episode was soon to continue. He quickly asked, "Anything in there about who Albert's father was?" Henry nodded in the affirmative.

"I only skimmed through it," Henry replied, eyes glued to the TV. "But according to two entries in her diary, Albert's father was Edward Barton, the son of the old doctor who signed my commitment papers in 1815."

Not wishing to miss any of the episode, he promised to fill them all in later. He wondered if more would be shown of the actors portraying Abigail and him. Would a kid-sized Abe show up, as well? The practical side of his mind, the part that understood anonymity worked best to keep someone with his condition safe, warned him that any more scenes with either Abigail or Abe might eventually end his ability to continue working with Jo or even living in New York ... or anywhere else safely. But curiosity ruled the other part of his mind and was hard to ignore. Of course, he knew that Abe and Jo might be entertaining the same thoughts and misgivings as he was. But were the others? He needn't have wondered for they were. What would Henry and Abe do, they thought, if the show brought this story too close to home for them?

vvvv

Finale Pt 1 (continued) ...

The episode picks up on the family of Raymond and Erin as the children grow to adulthood and their parents grow older. Erin, the former detective at the ground-breaking, female-owned-and-operated Warne Detective Agency, has owned the agency for the past fifteen years and employs detectives of both genders. She has spent the past ten years grooming their daughters, Eileen and Eleanor, to follow in her footsteps and one day take over the agency. Eleanor, however, chooses political activism like the woman she was named for: Eleanor Roosevelt. Eileen decides to take her detective training in a different direction and finds work in Toronto, Canada, as a forensic pathologist - a Medical Examiner.

[Abe nudges Henry with his elbow, both of them and the others pleasantly surprised.]

Raymond, Jr., just out of high school, disappoints and worries both of his parents by electing not to go to college and enlisting in the Marines instead.

[Abe nudges Henry again. Both smile, remembering how an earlier episode showed how Henry had upset and angered his parents by going off to fight in the Napoleonic Wars; and how Abe had evoked the same emotions from his parents when he'd gone off to fight in Vietnam. "Seems to run in the family, eh, Pops?"]

1964 - 1966 ...

Erin hugs herself as she stands in front of the fireplace. She wistfully views a group family photo taken when the children were all still in high school. A small smile crosses her lips then fades as she turns around to face her husband seated in a plush armchair near the hearth. Taking a seat near him on the matching sofa, she joins him in tea.

"I don't know which is more dangerous," she sighs, adding lemon to her tea. "Ellie risking her life down in Mississippi with the Freedom Riders or Ray risking his in the jungles of Vietnam." She blows on her tea to cool it and takes a sip.

Raymond eyes her for a moment and sips his tea. "We taught them as well as we could and they've made their choices," he states with conviction. "We can only now pray that they come back to us in one piece," he adds. The worry in his wife's face is reflected in his voice. "At least Eileen's safe," he says and sips his tea again.

Erin forces a smile and nods, taking another sip of her tea. Her detective skills have allowed her to uncover that Eileen has become more actively involved in the field investigation side of solving murders. She's breaking ground as a female in her chosen profession in another country, but quite possibly is in just as much danger as her siblings are in their chosen walks. Erin feels it's best not to let Raymond know. Best not to worry him. Especially in his condition. He's putting up a brave fight, she tells herself. But the doctors have given him little more than a year to live; two, at the most.

 _"Juvenille acute lymphoblastic leukemia," Dr. Marstadt had informed them right before Raymond had undergone a new bout of treatments after having been in remission for five years. "It's quite rare but not unheard of that an adult would have a type of leukemia usually found in juveniles. But the treatments worked before and I'm confident that they'll work again," he reassured them._

They hadn't, though. The hope of Raymond living to see any grandchildren from any of his three children was slowly fading as was his "lifelight", as he called it.

 _"I'm sorry, my dear, but it appears that you will have to greet our grandchildren without me," he'd jokingly told her after they'd left Dr. Marstadt's office._

 _"Nonsense!" she'd bravely replied, commanding her tears not to fall. "A man as stubborn as you are? You'll outlive us all!" They'd managed to laugh but deep down knew it was just another effort to bolster each other._

The new round of treatments leaves Raymond more debilitated than he expects so after the second round, he elects to end them. He has resigned his position as head of the family business and after several weeks seems to recover enough to where he can take short walks unaccompanied and indulges once again in his favorite hobbies like fishing and boating unassisted. In 1966, however, at 69 and nearly two years to the day after leaving Dr. Marstadt's office, Raymond Alun Morgan, Sr., takes his final breath at home.

1967 to 1977 ...

Raymond's vast estate is settled a little more than a year after his death. Erin continues to live in their home in New York City while the twins use their inheritances wisely. Raymond, Jr., however, tries his best to follow in his father's footsteps and invest wisely and grow his small fortune, but fails miserably at each attempt. His mother, against her better judgment and unbeknownst to her daughters, bails him out from time to time. As his mismanaged inheritance dwindles, his mother picks up the slack more and more, endangering the integrity of her own retirement portfolio.

In 1977, Erin is felled by a stroke that permanently incapacitates her. She can no longer speak or write and loses the ability to help her son keep his head above the murky financial waters he constantly remains in. Only then do Ellie and Eileen learn of their mother's precarious financial state. Because she had hidden how much she'd helped their brother, they had only been aware that he was "struggling" but maintaining a foothold in the real estate business and had recently branched out by joining a different type of investment group, chiefly involved in savings and loan institutions. A move that would soon prove devastating for him and nearly all of his fellow investors.


	27. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 27 Finale Pt 2

Summary:

In 1977, 11 years after Raymond, Sr., dies and six years after his widow, Erin, dies after complications from a major stroke, their wayward son, Raymond, Jr., tries his best to follow in his father's footsteps as a wise investor and businessman but his small fortune fails to grow and slowly dwindles. His mother, against her better judgment and unbeknownst to her daughters, does all she can to help him financially, endangering the integrity of her own retirement portfolio.

vvvv

"Intermission?" a slightly bewildered Reece asked no one in particular. She and the others shared surprised looks at the ornately-written word plastered across the TV screen in white letters on a blue background. A symphonic musical version of 'Eleanor Rigby' played while they took a short listen and collectively decided that they didn't like it as much as the original recording; and gave passing notice as to how the song may or may not have related to the mini-series.

"Hmmm, maybe not such a bad idea," Reece added and rose from her seat. "These usually last about 15 minutes, so ... "

Jo directed her and the others to the bathrooms on the second floor. As they filed up the staircase, she and Henry chose to stretch their legs by taking the nearly empty coffee pot back into the kitchen. Jo rinsed it out and set to brewing a fresh pot. She eyed Henry as he stood near the kitchen island lost in thought. Aware of his uneasiness over what other areas of his life the TV drama might disclose, she moved closer to him and asked, "What are you thinking?"

He reacted to her closer presence by slowly drawing in a breath and quickly letting it out. "Oh ... wondering if another version of an unchanged me with an older Abby will show up in one of the upcoming scenes."

"And if that version of them or their son does show up," Jo began, "will it spark someone's memories out there." It was more of a statement than a question.

He pursed his lips and nodded. "Someone's memories being sparked in the past have usually meant only one thing for me: a quick exit from my present life and the start of a new one somewhere else," he pursed his lips again and bugged his eyes.

Jo drew closer to him and wrapped her arms around his waist and looked at him for a second before nestling her face in the crook of his neck. Eyes closed and smiling, she hugged him a little tighter when she felt his arms wrap around her, as well. One of his hands rubbed up and down her back gently, the other stroked her soft, dark brown locks.

"Are you gonna tell them about ... Adam?" she asked quietly, haltingly. She opened her eyes when she realized that his hands had stilled their movements. Leaning back to look up at him, she bit her lower lip and waited for him to reply.

His expression was stony, his usually warm, hazel-brown eyes now darkened at the mention of the older Immortal's name. "Not yet," he replied. His expression unhardened into a soft smile as he looked down at her. "Eventually, though," he promised. "But not tonight." Tonight was not to be ruined with talk of the demented fellow if he could help it. Besides, just sitting through the rest of the finale was causing him more anxiety than he'd realized.

The sound of voices and approaching footsteps caught their attention at the same time they realized the coffee had finished brewing. The couple broke from their embrace and had the fresh pot of coffee back on the tray on the coffee table by the time the others had retaken their seats in the livingroom. They then wordlessly excused themselves and climbed the stairs to the bathrooms. Jo disappeared into the first one, Henry into the one at the end of the hallway.

Abe's eyes followed them as they left the room. His eyes then shifted to the TV screen that indicated less than eight minutes were left for the Intermission. He crossed his arms and lowered his head a bit, eyes moving slowly back and forth, deep in his thoughts. The others noticed the slightly worried look on his face. They weren't quite sure what to say to him but felt strongly that the doctor and nurse shown attending young Eileen Morgan in the hospital scene were at the root of his worry. The medical couple would have been his parents, Henry and Abigail. What if someone else watching who'd known the family or knew Abe now, were to recognize those two characters as his parents, as well? What would Henry and Abe do then?

Abe kept his head down, not meeting the eyes of the others. And, proving that he was truly his father's son possessing a similar brand of deductive skills, asked, "What say we address that elephant in the room, hmm?" He quickly looked up at each of them with a smirk of a smile on his face. It helped to break the tension and Reece was the first to put a voice to it.

"You're worried that a viewer or viewers might conclude that the doctor named Henry Morgan and the nurse named Abigail Morgan were your parents," she speculated.

"Yeah," Lucas said, bobbing his head.

"Could ... present a problem," Mike uncomfortably conceded.

"Problem?" Abe asked, uncrossing his arms and sitting forward, his hands on his knees. "Prob-LEMS," he emphasized. He sat back again and crossed his arms, then raised one hand and rubbed his forehead with it. Dropping his hand back down and looking around at the others, he added, "It was always when somebody recognized Dad for what he wasn't - old or dead - and began to wonder what he was ... and why. That's when we had problems. That's when we always had to move," he said with more than a hint of resentment in his voice.

"Not fair," Lucas said, barely above a whisper.

Abe scoffed. "Couldn't blame 'em. The truth just sounds too fantastical to believe. Heck, if I hadn't grown up knowing the man, I probably wouldn't believe any of it, either," he admitted. "I ... I just ... just want him to be happy somewhere, ya know?" He blinked rapidly and breathed in deeply. "Not lookin' over his shoulder all the time. Second-guessing himself and his surroundings." His voice had become shaky.

"You two are not alone anymore, Abraham. You've got us now. And Jo. We'll help him," Reece assured him. "For as long as we can." Mike and Lucas nodded their agreement.

Abe smiled at them, grateful for their support and grappling with the newness of it. For the first 40 years of his life, it had only been Mom and him helping to safeguard Dad's secret. For the past 30 years, it had been only him. He hoped that they wouldn't notice the tears in his eyes he was trying so hard to blink away. When he realized that Henry and Jo were coming back into the livingroom, he coughed a couple of times and sniffed, shifting his weight atop the sofa's cushions.

"Hey, you two," he greeted them as jovially as he could. "Back just in time. Intermission's over."

Henry and Jo retook their seats on the sofa next to Abe. He frowned slightly at Abe and glanced quickly at the others. Whatever the conversation had been during their absence, the weight of it still lingered in the air. The evidence of unspoken thoughts and unanswered questions written on their faces. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap, training his eyes on the TV screen.

"Not sure what all of you may have been discussing while Jo and I were gone," he began, "but I feel the elephant is still in the room."

"Well, let's see if the second half of this finale kicks it out," Abe dryly replied. Or if it's joined by a few more friends, he ruefully thought.

The Intermission had ended and the second half of the series' finale was beginning. They all collectively held their breaths.

/

1983 ...

Statewide Savings Bank is only one of many institutions that Raymond, Jr., and his financial group have invested in. And one of many on a course for failure. In March 1983, the public becomes aware that the large Cleveland, Ohio-based bank is about to collapse. The Governor declares a bank holiday in the state as Statewide depositors line up in a "run" on the bank's branches to withdraw their deposits. The Governor orders the closure of all the state's S&Ls and only those that are able to qualify for membership in the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC) are allowed to reopen. Claims by Ohio S&L depositors drain the state's deposit insurance funds.

A clearly agitated Raymond, Jr., sits on the edge of his bed, hands gripping the edges on either side of him, while he rocks back and forth. His head is tucked into his chest, his eyes tightly shut. He begins to shake his head as the intensity of his rocking increases. In a desperate attempt to block out the sight of his sister, Eileen, and her angry voice, he suddenly clamps his hands over his ears and jumps up from the bed, stalking across the floor and away from her.

"Stop it. Stop it. Stop it!" he yells, his voice rising in pitch with each utterance. He lowers his hands into fisted balls and whirls around to face her. "You're always the one," he growls. "Always the one who has all the answers, always did the right thing, Little Miss Perfect!"

"Ray, we're not children anymore," she angrily responds. "This is serious. This is not you claiming to have a smaller piece of cake than Ellie or me. This is real. Another example of you not wanting to take anyone else's advice, finding yourself in another financial pinch and expecting somebody to bail you out again!"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he mutters through clenched teeth, running his hand through his unruly hair. "You and Ellie have never understood how hard I've worked, how much I've wanted to - "

"Be like father," she finishes for him. He stiffens at those words. Words he'd heard for years from her, from others. Even from their parents before their deaths. He lowers his gaze from hers and slowly walks back towards the bed, standing there, fighting back his tears and old and new realizations of his failed business ventures.

"You never had to try to be just like father, Raymond," she tells him in a more soothing tone. "We all love you no matter what, but ... "

"But what?"

"If you had chosen to be ... a writer, a photographer, an athlete ... anything (he interrupts her with a mirthless laugh) we would have loved and supported you just the same." She looks around his bedroom and declares it a pig sty.

"Look at this room. Look at yourself. When was the last time you bathed or even brushed your teeth? And when was the last time you ate anything?" she demands, opening the windows to let fresh air in and drawing the drapes back to let in the sunshine.

He winces at the light, covering his eyes and turns his back to it. Sitting back down on the bed, he groans when she notices the empty bottles of gin on the floor on the other side of the bed, and continues to take him to task.

"Why am I not surprised," she scoffs. "Ray, there are no answers to be found in the bottom of a bottle!"

[Her statement struck a nerve with both Henry and Abe. For they both clearly recalled Abe telling Henry virtually the same thing after he'd chosen to drown his misery in a bottle after Abigail had left. They are both keenly aware of the nearly identical timeframes, too: the early to mid-1980's. How ironic, they both thought, that their distant relative, Raymond Morgan, Jr., had been enduring his own private hell at the same time as they had, probably just a few city blocks away from each other. Neither man trusted himself to look at the other, though. Instead, they chose to keep their attention on the scene playing out before them, curious to see the events unfold while at the same time dreading the outcome].

"And who says I'm looking for answers?" he laughingly replies. "I'm doing my best to avoid them. People drink to numb the pain," he tells her matter-of-factly.

[Jo felt the punch of Eileen's words, too. After Sean's death, she'd sought and found no answers in the bottoms of all the bottles of gin, whiskey, scotch and beer she'd guzzled down for more than a year. Junior's right, she sadly told herself. People do drink to numb the pain. But it only numbs it for the moment. And, sadly, you never forget why you're drinking. So you wind up drinking even more and more and ... your judgment becomes clouded and ... you wind up saying and doing things you would N-E-V-E-R do while sober. She smiled softly when she felt Henry interlace his fingers with hers and squeeze her hand. She squeezed back and placed her hand on his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head to the side and gently touched it twice to the top of her head. She smiled up at him as he smiled down at her. No words were necessary. They knew each other's histories and the battles they'd fought against their own demons.]

Raymond's sister studies him for a few moments then says, "Good thing that Mom and Dad aren't here to see you wallow in your self pity." She shakes her head and steps closer to him, dropping to her knees in front of him. Grabbing his hands in hers, she looks up into his sorrowful eyes and tells him, "You can go on like this; hiding from the world. Or face reality like the man that I know you are, Raymond. Yes, it's going to be difficult. Yes, there will be lawsuits, charges filed against you and your greedy cronies, but my brother is strong," she declares loudly. He grins and shakes his head in doubt.

"No. You are strong. Strong enough to weather whatever is to come as a result of this S&L - fiasco." She takes in a deep breath and gets up to sit beside him on the bed, still holding his hands. "You'll get through this. We'll get through this. Together." She cups his chin in her hand and lifts his head to face her. "Everything will be fine." Smiling warmly at him, she hopes that she's getting through to him. That it's enough to rescue him from his dark thoughts. The pep talk seems to work as they embrace and the scene fades out.

The next evening ...

Eileen smiles at her reflection in the full length mirror in the bedroom of her hotel suite. The background music is a dense, reflective, profoundly and resignedly sad funeral piece that unfortunately fits well with the scene as it switches to a forlorn-looking Raymond, Jr. He sits on the bed in his hotel room, the sweat on his face mingled with the tears on his cheeks. As the music plays, the viewer is made aware of how sharply his features contrast with the look of happiness on Eileen's. She's looking forward to having dinner with her brother at Delmonico's restaurant on Beaver Street near their hotel.

The scene switches back to the troubled young man, the music dirging on. His eyes lower to something he's holding in his lap: a small handgun. He holds it with his right hand while his left hand smooths over the short barrel. He clutches it with both hands to his chest and presses his lips tightly together. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly raises the weapon up to his right temple.

The scene switches again to Eileen as she begins to worry that he's overdue to join her. He should have been here by now to pick her up, she tells herself, checking the time on her wristwatch.

Back to her brother's room, the camera captures Raymond's troubled eyes as they fill the screen, and then to the back of his head as he holds the gun to his temple. His eyes are shown again as they close in slow motion.

Back to Eileen's room, the camera also captures her movements in slow motion as she picks up the phone's receiver and dials his number. She mutters something teasingly about his habitual tardiness as the phone rings at the other end. Her eyes full of happy anticipation fill the screen. With each ring, the camera swiftly switches between her eyes, the unanswered phone in his room, his eyes and the barrel slowly turning as the trigger is cocked and released. The weapon's loud discharge is heard and the screen goes suddenly white.

Two months later, a still very saddened and emotionally drained Eileen sits and stares at the small pile of condolences for her brother, Raymond Alun Morgan, Jr., dead at the age of 43, by his own hand. 'By his own hand. By his own hand. By his own hand.'

The words repeat in her tired brain and she drops the pen in her hand onto the desk in her study. She closes her eyes and covers her face with both hands.

"We don't have to do this today," her twin, Ellie, tells her. She leans down and kisses her sister on the side of her forehead, hugging her across her shoulders.

"I know, I know," Eileen wearily replies. She manages a small smile and looks up at her sister, 17 minutes older than she. "This one, though, needs to be opened. Needs a response." She picks up a thick, white envelope, edged in black, and hands it to Ellie.

The return address on the envelope fills the TV screen. "Ah," Ellie draws out. "Lawrence and Amanda Morgan, bless their hearts." She hands the envelope back to Eileen and says, "Perhaps we should visit them soon. They've always been good company for us. Our English cousins," she announces playfully in a faux British accent.

"Perhaps," Eileen tentatively agrees.

"Their son, Henry, is already a year old," Ellie says. "They're trying for a little girl," she adds, smiling. "Why didn't any of us have any children?" she asks pensively.

"Too busy. Too selfish, some say. And now too old," Eileen replies with a soft laugh and looks at the return address on the envelope again. The camera slowly closes in on the London address of their English cousins, Lawrence and Amanda, as the two women somberly agree that the line of Raymond and Erin Morgan will die out with their deaths. Their voices and the scene fade out while another of a man and woman walking together in a garden emerges. The words 'Trillingham Manor' are displayed near the bottom of the screen as the scene's clarity sharpens.

The man is slender, auburn-haired, hazel-eyed. And tall - four inches over six feet. He has a kind face, a strong jawline and an even stronger conviction to do good. He walks arm in arm with an attractive, petite, blue-eyed blonde woman. They are both dressed smartly but warmly for the brisk winds that whip across the English countryside. The winds pick up and they hug themselves, shivering, and quickly decide to cut their walk short. As they enter their large manor through the patio, the French doors close behind them. The camera follows them as they make their way in and out of the study and up the spiral staircase.

"I just wish that we could have been there, Mandy," he says with a sigh. "The funeral for poor Cousin Raymond was packed with more nosey journalists than family members. There to make sure that the dead horse was more soundly beaten," he adds sarcastically.

"But Larry, we couldn't leave little Henry. Not while he was suffering through another one of his episodes," she points out to him and he nods reluctantly in agreement. "Eileen and Ellie understand," she reminds him, patting his arm.

"Then we must all visit soon. Cheer them up," he adds.

"Invite them here," she quietly reminds him. "I don't wish to leave our baby in case ... and I don't think it wise to take him on such a long trip."

They enter a room on the second floor and walk gingerly over to their small son, asleep in his crib. They smile lovingly down at him.

Larry tilts his head to the side as he studies his son. "He looks almost ... ," He stops. Bites his lower lip.

"Almost normal," Mandy says. "Like any other happy child, asleep without a care in the world."

Worry and concern begins to cloud Larry's face. "What shall become of our little one? Why was he born with such ... such baffling afflictions?" Mandy shakes her head but says nothing.

A quiet laugh escapes from Larry's throat as a thought crosses his mind. "Wouldn't it be something if that old Morgan family legend were true? The, uh, Undying One," he clarifies.

Mandy shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "Oh, he would come one day and save our little Henry. Heal him with his magical powers," she adds, unable to contain her laughter.

Larry isn't laughing, though. "Sometimes I pray - "

"Larry!"

"Yes. I pray sometimes that it's true. That one day he will show up and ... heal our little boy."

"Larry," Mandy whispers. "Just an old wive's tale, a fantasy. How could you possibly believe such a thing?"

"You're right. You're absolutely right," he concedes, nodding his head. "But please - indulge me this one fantasy."

Notes:

Savings & Loan crisis info found on wikipedia

Sad classical music pieces and descriptions found on quora


	28. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 28 Finale Pt 2A

Hi, everyone. We're getting to the end. Sorry for the long wait between updates but this flu bug meant it when it said no eating, no writing, no fun for a month! But I'm on the mends and hope you're still interested enough to read this latest chapter. Thank you all for your continued interest.

vvvv

 _'God! Me and my big mouth,' Jo thought to herself._ She guiltily recalled how she'd teased Henry before the premiere of the mini-series on his family's past fortunes, but because of "bad choices" had lost them by the 1970's per the network's synopsis prior to its airing.

During the commercial break, the group discussed some of what they'd seen so far, chiefly Raymond, Jr.'s apparent suicide.

"Hope his suicide is one of the things that didn't really happen," Lucas said. "I mean, he might have lived to a ripe old age," he speculated hopefully.

"Except I remember hearing something about that," Reece said, sadness and reluctance in her voice. She appeared to have trouble putting together the pieces of an elusive memory, then appeared to perk up. "I was 12 years old," she began. "My Uncle Jimmy worked as a cook in the kitchen of a fancy hotel - can't remember which one - but he came home one day telling us about one of the guests who'd taken his own life." She eyed Henry and Abe apologetically. "It, it could have been a totally different person, though."

"How sad," Jo said, shaking her head. "Murder is bad enough but suicide is so much sadder. And selfish," she declared. "Guess a person has to think they're at the end of their rope to do something like that." Her luxuriant locks bounced as she shook her head and delivered the rest of her condemnation.

"All they're thinking about is themselves. Not about the people left behind. The people who love them and who will be heartbroken once they're not around anymore."

Henry cringed, recalling his own dark periods in his life when he'd sought to end his life over and over without success. He hadn't shared those times with her yet and hoped never to do so. Abe only knew of _some_ of his suicide attempts after Abigail had left. The desire to end a life dealt one too many painful blows was all too familiar to him. He could totally relate to the despondency poor Raymond, Jr., must have felt. But, thankfully, his son - his wonderful, patient, long-suffering son - had managed to pull him out of that emotional pit after Abigail's departure from their lives. The discussion lingered on the suicide and the probable aftermath for a few minutes longer, then Mike straightened up as if having remembered something.

"Hey, Doc, what about that, uh, that English Lord you guys went to visit? Your ... cousin? Heard he was in a bad way. So, how's he doing now?"

"Oh, yeah," Lucas chimed in. "That couple in the garden must have been his and Cynthia's parents, right?"

"Actually, he and Cynthia are my, uh, several times great-grand-nephew and niece." Henry grinned as they all processed, or attempted to process that. "He's doing great. Says he's feeling better than he has in years," he added, smiling and bobbing his head.

"Yeah," Lucas added, knowingly.

Mike frowned and put his fist on one hip. "Now, how exactly would _you_ know? You weren't there."

Lucas' smile trembled a bit beneath a growing blush as he lowered his eyes and his voice. "Well, uh, h-his sister, Cynthia told me." He recovered enough to meet the surprised gazes of the others. "She hit me up on Twitter. She's not so bad," he chuckled, shrugging. "In fact, she's great. Plus she's hot," he added. His smile flattened out and his eyes widened as if in a trance. "Imagine if she and I got together," he whispered, "I'd become a member of your family, Henry."

Henry opened his mouth slightly, slowly shifting his wide-eyed gaze from Lucas to Jo, then to Abe, finally bending his head down and giving in to a slight smile. "Ah ... well ... wouldn't that be something." Jo managed to contain her smile but pressed her fingers into Henry's arm to remind him to control his tongue.

"And, yes, Lucas, Lawrence and Amanda were their parents' names."

"Hey," Abe said, pointing to the TV. "We're back from commercial." They all turned their attention to the resumption of the program and an accompanying narrative.

1979 to 1984 ...

The show resumes as Lawrence, an author, and Amanda, a former TV cooking show host, live an extremely happy and comfortable married life with their small son, Henry. They welcome a baby girl in 1984 and name her Cynthia. Like her older brother, she's absolutely adorable, nearly the spitting image of her young mother. Her parents breathe a sigh of relief when doctors inform them that she has not been born with any of the troubling ailments that beset her older brother.

The scene advances a few years to find the busy, young family dividing their time between work, play, and numerous doctor visits and hospital stays for their young son, Henry. One night, his mother, Mandy, kneels near his bed, clutching his hand and crying softly while she prays. Unbeknownst to her, three-year-old Cynthia, awoken by her mother's sobs and prayers, stands up in her crib and listens. The little girl has heard the prayer often before and would hear it often again and again.

"Please, Lord, oh, Lord (sobs) Henry (sobs) please get better. Oh, my little boy ... so much of life ahead of you, so many things to live for (sobs). Let him live (sobs) Lord (unintelligible and sobs) Henry deserves better than all of this sickness (sobs) piled up one after the other on such, such a small, frail body... "

Little Cynthia's eyes well up with tears and her lower lip puckers out as she drops down to a sitting position in her crib and whines, "Please, Lord Henry get better. Let Mummy get happy again." Her whinings become loud wails, attracting her mother's attention, who leaves her sleeping son to see after her distraught daughter. She rushes into the next bedroom, quickly brushing her tears from her face, and scoops the crying child up into her arms. She sits in the rocking chair near the crib and attempts to comfort and quiet her. After a few moments of petting and shushing, the child quiets down. Mandy smiles down at Cynthia and gently brushes the tears off of the little girl's face.

"Did you have a bad dream, honey?" Mandy asks then plants a kiss on her forehead, hugging her close again.

"No. You were crying over Lord Henry," Cynthia croakingly replies.

Mandy frowns in confusion, then a smile of realization overtakes her features. "Oh, honey, you see, I was - "

"Mummy," Cynthia interrupts, agitated. "Don't let Lord Henry diiiieeee!" Her words erupt into loud wails again and Mandy cuddles her close, rocking and shushing her. She feels it's better to let the explanation go for now. Getting her distraught child quieted down and to sleep is the main priority at this moment. She can't help but smile anyway at the workings of a child's innocent mind when trying to comprehend all they hear and see in the fast-moving world around them. The scene ends with Mandy humming a lullaby and rocking Cynthia as sleep finally begins to overtake her.

[Everyone in the room chuckled and shook their heads, realizing that the "Lord" before Henry's name was merely some kind of childhood nickname. Everyone, that is, except Lucas. He sat pouting and frowning at the TV screen, blurting out his disappointment that Henry's "not a real Lord".

"I should have known, though, since Cynthia is not _Lady_ Cynthia."

"Well, there's actually more to it than that, Lucas," Henry began before Abe cut him off.

"And we'll be very happy to hear it **after** the show is **over** ," he said, giving his father a very pointed look and motioning towards the TV screen. "We got action, Pops."

Henry, all too familiar with his son's save-it-for-later-please look, grunted out a sigh but gave his attention back to the TV show.]

1989 ...

Larry, recently returned from a failed business trip to the vineyards still held by the Morgan family in the south of France, is hustling off once again to meet with a tour guide and historian in Cardiff, Wales. He's gathering information for his latest book that will chronicle his Morgan family from their earliest beginnings up to the present day. He's convinced Mandy to take a break from the children for a few hours and accompany him. The break will do both of them good, he tells her and, reluctantly, she agrees but reads a long list of last-minute instructions to Steadham, the nurse, and the rest of the household staff. Steadham, ever the dutiful servant and gentleman, listens patiently, bowing his head occasionally with a "Yes, Madam". All the while, Larry is urging his wife to get in the car and after an elongated farewell, she takes her seat beside him in the backseat of the limousine. Sighs of obvious relief are breathed on both sides of the long farewell by him and by Steadham and the staff. As they make their way to the airport, he pats her hand and reminds her that their children are in good hands with Steadham in charge.

"I expect this venture to be more fruitful than my recent trip to the family vineyards," he grimly states. "No pun intended."

"That bad?" Mandy asks although she's pretty sure of his answer.

He grimaces again and shakes his head. "All Antoine could speak of was for us to remember him and his wife, Jeannette, as possible guardians for the children if anything were to happen to you or me." He looks over at a surprised and outraged Mandy. "Can you believe that? I'm taking up my valuable time to fly over there and help him with some options on how to save the vineyard - impossible, it seems, even though I'm no real businessman - and he's only focused on _our_ mortality."

"What ... exactly ... is he implying?" she asks, her voice rising with each word. "That something could ... happen to us? Oh, I've never liked that man!"

"That makes two of us," Larry added in agreement. "The way he mismanaged the vineyard all during his marriage to our Cousin Laura." He shakes his head again.

Mandy sighs. "Well, it's a good thing that you never loaned him any money." She looks at Larry. "Right?"

"Oh, of course!" Larry replies, frowning. "I may not have much of a head for business but at least I knew that much."

"You think that he might go off the deep end like Cousin Raymond did?" Mandy asks.

"Him?" Larry scoffs. "Not a chance. He's too greedy, too selfish. But I wouldn't put it past him to - "

Mandy grabs Larry's hand. "The way that Cousin Laura died. Falling down the stairs." She squeezes his hand. "Something about that that never sat well with me."

Larry sighs heavily and squeezes her hand back. "The authorities made a full investigation - "

"So they say," Mandy interrupts, doubt, frustration and anger reflected in her voice.

"Well," Larry begins, "My research may have uncovered something to help shed more light on the circumstances surrounding Laura's death." He meets Mandy's astonished gaze. "Yes," he nods. "Maybe enough to re-open the investigation."

"That's ... good but ... horrible at the same time," Mandy finally says. "Good that there might be some new evidence to help put Antoine away but horrible to think that her death really wasn't an accident at all." Larry squeezes her hand then hugs her around the shoulders.

"I know, Luv. I know."

The scene advances to a commercial airliner in flight, then to the couple offboarding and eventually connecting with the limousine driver sent to pick them up from the airport. The exhausted couple is on the last leg of their journey. As they both lean back in their seats and close their eyes, they are rudely awakened when their vehicle is rammed hard from behind. The camera switches between the couple being seriously jostled inside the car and the driver struggling to maintain control of it, and back to the darker, larger vehicle behind them. The headlights are so bright that they light up the inside of the limousine in front but prevent anyone from seeing the occupants of the aggressor vehicle apparently intent upon forcing them off the road.

The panicked trio in the limousine do what they can to brace themselves for each impact but the driver fails to fully negotiate a hairpin turn and it flies off the roadway down a steep embankment. It turns over and over, bursting into flames at the bottom of the embankment. The rouge vehicle still on the roadway, wastes no time hanging around and speeds away, vanishing into the darkness.

[Everyone in the room had been on the edges of their seats watching the last events play out on the screen. Jo was the first to speak.

"Oh, my gosh, Henry. Looks like they were murdered." She can't believe what she'd just seen.

"Yeah," Lucas said. "Bet it was that Antoine guy they were discussing."

"Wow. Bad business," Mike added. "Killin' his own family members just so's he can keep his business afloat. Creep!"

"And he was already a suspect in the death of his wife, remember?" Reece reminded them. "Boy, I'd sure like to know how that investigation came out."

Abe looked at his unusually silent father and asked, "Did Lord, I mean, Cousin Henry or Cynthia tell you anything about that?"

"No," he replied, still frowning at the TV but not seeing the commercials. "But Steadham did." He took in a deep breath and blinked, looking around at all of them. "You're all quite right. It was murder and the culprit was Antoine. His second wife, Jeannette, turned on him. Cut a deal with the authorities and revealed not only the plot he'd concocted to do away with Larry and Amanda but also his first wife, Laura." He sighed again and continued. "He was tried, convicted, and hanged himself in prison after only two weeks."

"Hopefully, his body didn't disappear," Lucas said. He spread his hands and straightened up. "Well, you know, best that he really be dead and his body is buried somewhere. He can't come back and harm anyone else."

Adam briefly flashed across Henry's thoughts. No, thankfully, he thought to himself. One troublesome immortal was enough for any world to handle. "Yes, Lucas. He's actually buried in an unmarked grave but I believe the site may be on the grounds of the vineyard."

"Ugh," Lucas said, making a face. "That means he's fertilizer for the grapes. People have been drinking him for years." He shuddered at the thought.

Mike put a fist on his hip and shot a look of tired annoyance at Lucas. "Now, you just always seem to know the _wrong_ thing to say, don't you?!"


	29. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 29 Finale Pt 2B

Across the pond, 2:12 PM ...

Henry Morgan, late of being a Lord (sort of), and his younger sister, Cynthia, both lay sleeping in their respective bedrooms in Trillingham Manor. Earlier, they had watched most of the finale of the mini-series since it had not been included with the tape provided to them by the show's production staff. Both had elected not to watch the scene in which the actors portraying their parents, Lawrence and Amanda, had lost their lives in a fiery car crash. In reality, the driver had been thrown clear of the car before it had burst into flames but died two days later in the hospital. He'd been able to provide investigators with only a few clues but enough to trace the rogue vehicle that had forced theirs off the road, to the young couple's relative, Antoine Vennard.

Antoine had incorrectly believed that he and his new wife, Jeannette, had successfully ingratiated themselves into the lives of Lawrence and Amanda, paving the way for them to be awarded custody of their two young children, Henry and Cynthia, should anything happen to them. However, being an impatient man, he was unwilling to wait to see if tragedy would befall the young couple. Instead, he opted to hurry things along down the path of his choosing. Unbeknownst to the devious, greedy man, the young couple had already named their trusted servant, Reginald Steadham, as the children's guardian in the case of their early passing.

Earlier that evening ...

"We're skipping over this part, right?" Cynthia asked with an uncomfortable look on her face. They'd chosen to watch the show in the seldom-used sitting room next to the large dining room.

"Yes," her brother replied.

Cynthia chose to switch channels for the next few minutes just as their onscreen parents offboarded the airliner in Wales. She ceased her channel flipping when laughter hit their ears and the familiar characters employed in an upscale but struggling department store appeared on the screen.

"This alright for now?" she asked Henry. He nodded and she sighed, dropping the remote into her lap. Although they'd elected not to view the painful reenactment of their parents' deaths, it was still uppermost in their minds. Neither of them joined in with the canned laughter in response to the zany antics of the comedy show's characters. Instead, they watched in silence, not sharing their thoughts and impatiently awaiting the chance to rejoin the mini-series as the final scenes unfolded. However, they sought to comfort each other by finding and squeezing the hand of the other. They smiled at each other and Henry nodded that enough time may have passed for them to be able to resume watching the mini-series. Cynthia picked up the remote and playfully shoved it into his chest at the last minute.

"You know how to work this," she teased with a big grin. He grabbed it from her with a mock frown and returned to the channel where the mini-series was airing. They both breathed a sigh of relief that the violence of the death scene had passed but almost immediately held their next breaths when they realized the scene was depicting a younger Steadham being informed by the Executrix of their parents' estate that he was to be their guardian.

/

"Why me?", the dumbfounded, younger-looking Steadham asks. "I'm unmarried and actually very inexperienced in raising children. No matter how fond I may be of them, entrusting their rearing to me would be nothing short of foolishness, in my opinion."

"Because they trusted you, Mr. Steadham; and believed that inspite of your insistence upon discipline, you would place love for their children above any rigid practices," the Executrix, Mildred Cayles, replies.

The scene advances several months later after all legalities are settled. Steadham - Uncle Reggie - and the two children stand before the gravestones of Lawrence and Amanda Morgan, born August 1951 and June 1955, respectively; died on the same day, February 2, 1989. All three of them take turns placing portions of a colorful bouquet of flowers on their graves, after which they stand in silent reverance with Steadham in the middle of the two children, their hands clasped in his. As they slowly turn and walk to their left to a waiting limousine parked just a few yards away, the show's now-familiar theme music rises. After the chauffeur ensures they are properly seated in the limo, he closes the door and quickly enters on the other side, positioning himself behind the wheel. As it pulls away, the show's theme music continues while wording scrolls up explaining that Antoine was eventually brought to justice only to take his own life shortly after being convicted. The last of the wording was:

 _The two Morgan children grew to adulthood under the watchful and loving eye of Reginald Steadham, affectionately known as Uncle Reggie to them. To this day, they live and prosper in their family home known as Trillingham Manor._

/

The final credits flashed on the TV screen much too quickly for a normal human to read. Cynthia and Henry relaxed their shoulders and sighed as they leaned forward.

"Well, that's the end," Cynthia breathed out while holding the remote but eyes fixed on the screen. "The end of the Morgan saga," she breathed out again.

Henry frowned and replied, "Hmmm, not quite." He turned an amused face to her and continued, "We're still alive and for the first time in _my_ life, I feel like getting out and doing things."

"Like what, dear brother?"

"Oh, like finding someone to twitter to like you have," he playfully remarked, his eyebrows raised.

"It's tweet, silly goose," she corrected him, grinning. Then embarrassment overtook her expression and she stammered out, "How, how did you know I was - ?"

"Lucas, isn't it?" he asked before she could finish her own question. He chuckled at her expression of surprised embarrassment. "I have my ways of knowing these things. Always have," he chuckled louder and leaned away from her punching his arm.

She couldn't help but join him in his amusement. "Yes, it's about time, brother. Betty Broussard has always seemed interested in you."

"Yes," he sighed, his features calming. "Her interest has always been more along the lines of pity than anything else, though." He stood up and faced her with renewed energy. "No, Cynth. I shall endeavor to seek out more meaningful relationships, romantic and otherwise, as I take advantage of this new lease on life granted me by our newest relative, Dr. Henry Morgan."

"It was my impression that he clearly does not share your belief that he was responsible for your healing," she cautiously reminded him.

"And he and I have deuling theories on what really happened to me, but I hold to my own beliefs. He's simply wrong, that's all," he happily replied. "Now!" he said loudly, clapping his hands just as loudly together. "I'll need your help to plan a soiree!" He grabbed her hands and pulled her up to a standing position. "The Prince is having a ball!"

"Oh, you have advanced your status from Lord to Prince, have you?" she laughingly asked.

He sighed, shaking his head, a wide grin on his face. "Cynth ... right now I feel like I'm King of the _World_." He held onto her hands but lowered his head in thought. "Isn't it strange that all these years I actually believed that I was bestowed the title of Lord?" He shook his head, softly laughing. "What tricks a health-deficient mind can play on one. The staff will have to be retrained to address me simply as 'Sir' or Mr. Morgan." He considered something else. "Or Mr. Henry."

Turning the conversation back to Lucas, he told her, "I must meet this Lucas. Tell me about him." Cynthia clicked off the TV with the remote and she and her brother leisurely strolled out of the sitting room.

"Well, he's tall, very tall. He's cute, very cute. And nice. Very nice," she chuckled. "A bit shy, a bit awkward," she added. "Well, a lot awkward," she giggled, "but that's what endears me the most to him."

"Lucas," he frowned, remembering something. "Not the fellow in that apartment building you were staying in while in New York?" he asked, almost indignant. She nodded, smiling.

"A Yank!" he bellowed, feigning deep disapproval and fending off her arm punches again. "This tears it, little sister. A Yank!"

Five hours earlier in New York ...

The small group of friends in Jo Martinez's home rose to their feet, stretching themselves and stifling yawns as the credits flashed on the screen.

"Well, that takes care of that," Mike said, stretching his back and shaking his arms out. "Thank you for inviting me into your home, Jo," he said as he nodded to her, "and to you, Henry, for inviting me into your life," he continued, nodding to him, as well.

Jo flashed a smile of welcome to him while Henry's smile was a little more forced. For he knew that what he had shared with them and what they had gleaned from the mini-series was really only the tip of the iceberg. There was so much more to share with them. Adam's existence, for one. Lucas' voice brought his mind back to the conversation.

"I still would like to know why everyone called him 'Lord' Henry all this time, then." He appeared to still be pouting over the news that the Morgan family were not nobles. "The governess in an earlier episode called that first guy, uh, Robert(?) Sir. She called him 'Sir'!" He turned his pouty, confused face to Henry. "What's up with that?"

Henry breathed in slowly and deeply before replying. "Lucas, to the best of my knowledge and recollection, my father was never a titled nobleman. No one in my family, that I can recall. Now, granted, some may have married into titled families, but ... " he paused, sighing. "Keeping track of all the comings and goings of my family members would have been a daunting task with today's technology." He shook his head. "No, Lucas. No nobility."

"So ... your Cousin Henry was just ... a little messed up in the head and thought he was a Lord?" Lucas asked. "I mean, it doesn't mean a whole lot to me," he quickly explained. "Just trying to understand, you know, why they all called him that for all those years."

"Possibly a mild form of perpetual delirium or a delusion that had its origins in childhood. He may have misunderstood the words his mother had prayed over him just as his sister had." Henry shrugged. "The staff and others may have gone along with his delusion just to placate him." He shrugged, recalling how a kind but deranged man in the mid 1900's declared himself Emperor of San Francisco and a pitying public also called him that for years until his death.

"But, thankfully, his mind has been healed along with his body. But who knows? He may eventually accomplish something that one day will warrant him being knighted," Henry added.

"Uh ... yeah," Lucas answered, distracted. He was looking at his phone and a broad smile slowly overtook his features. "Uh, okay, Doc, thanks. And, and thanks, Jo, for a nice evening. Stay cool, Abe!" He pocketed his phone and began walking toward the front door. "I gotta run." He opened the door and turned around one last time before leaving. "Night, everyone!" With that, he closed the door and they smiled when they heard what sounded like him bounding down the front steps three at a time before hitting the pavement and his brisk, long strides faded away.

"Manners!" Mike scoffed in mock disgust. "But I'm with Lucas, you guys. Callin' it a night." He kissed Jo on the cheek and gave Henry a friendly slap on the shoulder. He paused in front of Abe and looked him directly in the eyes.

"Really been a pleasure meeting you, Abe." He extended his hand and the two men shook hands heartily. "And finally finding out who you are," he added, glancing sideways at Henry. He looked again at Abe and leaned closer, whispering, "Try to get your old man up to speed on modern lingo and technology. He stands out like a sore thumb sometimes."

Abe grinned and lowered his head. "Pleasure meeting you too, Mike, all of you. And, uh, I've been practically beating him over the head all these years to stay current with things but ... my Dad," he sighed, shaking his head. "A hard nut to crack."

"Don't I know it!" Mike said, laughing softly and waved to them all before finally leaving.

Joanna Reece slowly stepped closer to the threesome, a soft smile on her lips and one eyebrow quirked up. "Thank you, Jo, for a lovely evening."

She moved sideways to stand in front of Abe and they shook hands. "Mr. Morgan," she said as if trying the name out for size.

"Ms. Reece," Abe replied, bowing slightly.

"Henry's son," she continued, her smile growing. "It's going to take almost as much for me to get used to _that_ as getting used to his immortality," she confessed. "But it has been a pleasure to meet you." She glanced at Henry, then back at Abe. "And please continue to beat him over the head or do whatever you need to do in order to bring him up to speed on what I'm sure he regards as mundane and trivial." Her smile threatened to grow wider. "I'm sure you're much too big for him to take you across his knee."

Abe crossed his arms over his chest and stood taller. "Oh, I'm sure he knows that," he playfully replied. He then placed his hand on Henry's shoulder, squeezing it. "But I've always done what I can to help Pops. Always will."

Joanna stepped directly in front of Henry and said, "Good night, Doctor. And whenever you feel the need to share ... anything more ... my door is always open." Henry understood the unspoken portion of her invitation. He nodded his head, a slight smile pursed between his lips. Joanna bid them all good night again, waiving off his and Abe's gentlemanly offers of walking her to her car, and let herself out.

The three remained standing in silence for a few moments. Each mulling over their own individual thoughts about the mini-series that had revealed new information to even Henry about his family's history; about Henry's newest confidantes and relatives; and their own feelings about everything that had occurred during the show's run. And what the future may now hold for all of them.

"Well, guess I'll be heading home, too," Abe announced.

"Wait for me, Abraham," Henry called to him.

Abe hurried toward the front door while shoving his arms into his jacket. "Sorry, Dad. Got a late date with Fawn." He opened the door and before closing it, reminded Henry not to wait up for him.

Henry stood with his fists on his hips and his mouth slightly agape. "Why that little," he muttered under his breath. He turned to Jo slightly frowning, slightly smiling. "He just left me here," he said in disbelief as he walked back closer to a smiling Jo. "How does he expect me to get home?"

Jo smiled and pulled him closer to her by his shoulders. "Oh, don't worry," Jo told him, her lips broadening into a wider smile. "I'll take you home." She kissed him quickly on the lips as her arms snaked up over his shoulders and around his neck. "When I'm good and ready."

Her lips were warm, moist, and inviting and he loved it when she teased him. His large hands found their way to her waist and he pulled her close against him. He smiled down at her after her too-quick kiss. "Is this hit-and-run type of treatment what I'm to expect until then?" he asked, feigning disappointment but hugging her even closer.

"Hit-and-run?" She smiled up at him and traced a finger over his lips. "Maybe you'd better show me just how you'd like to be treated," she whispered softly.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly devoid of moisture. "Jo." He knew he was breathing but it didn't feel like he was taking in any air. "Jo," he repeated, licking his lips. "Are you saying that you're ready to set aside the rule you made at the beginning ... the true beginning of our relationship?"

She lowered her eyes, licking her lower lip, then lifted her eyes to meet his gaze again. No playfulness this time. "I ... still need more time but ... I just ... need you near me tonight, Henry." She rested her forehead against his chest. His heart was pounding as fast and as hard as her own was. Was she ready for this? Was it still too soon? Love conquers all, doesn't it? And, good grief, she loved him so much. She felt his hands rubbing up and down her back as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, her long, luxurious locks covering his face. She sighed as he placed small kisses back up along her neckline to her lips again. Even though she knew that his gentlemanly upbringing was preventing him from being more aggressive, her knees still threatened to buckle.

He cupped one side of her face and tilted it upward so that he could kiss her more deeply. Gently but still longer than before. He was leaving it up to her how far they would go. But her earlier resolve for them to slow things down was fading fast. Their fingers got lost in each other's locks, and their tongues electrified each other with ever-deepening kisses. The only sounds they were both aware of were the pounding of their heartbeats and their moans of desire. Nothing else, no one else mattered at that moment.

vvvv

Aidan Greene's London flat ...

Aidan hadn't been that interested in the show's finale since he felt didn't have that big of a part in it. But it wasn't just his ego being underfed that failed to draw his interest to it. It was the fact that he'd been on the phone with his agent and the studio heads, arguing the case for a second season for the now ended but popular mini-series.

"Each episode garnered the lion's share of viewers both in Europe and the UK ... In the U.S., it was bested only by two reality shows: Celebrity Dancing and Star Makers ... Well, how about ... no, listen, please. How about a totally separate show, then? This one focusing on the character that I portrayed ... Yes, the doctor who for whatever unknown reason seemed to pop up over the decades never looking a day older than 35 and ... But it's intriguing! Viewers will be fascinated with following the exploits of this, uh, what was he called? The Undying One. That could be the perfect title or something like ... like ... one word like so many other shows: Undying." Aidan patted himself on the back with that one. Not bad, he thought. Undying. A show about a man who lived, well, forever, it would seem. The viewing public would eat it up -

"What? ... I don't believe this ... Alright, fine. Fine ... Yes, thank you all for your time," he said through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead in his free hand. The studio heads dropped off from the three-way call and he was left with what he felt was his gutless agent, Quentin Farr.

"Aidan, we did our best," Quentin regretfully told him. "They just see things through a different lens than everyone else does," he added. "We can try another network. That, uh, idea of yours for a series based on the elusive and enigmatic doctor sounds very interesting. A man who lives through the ages but doesn't age himself - interesting. Fascinating, actually."

"Fat lot of good it does us," Aidan muttered. "Can it be shopped to another network? ABC, the American network, seems to enjoy putting British actors in the starring role of several of their shows," he pointed out.

"We'll mount an aggressive campaign to do just that," Quentin promised him. "I'll be in touch. In the meantime, try to calm down and get some rest. You're scheduled to begin shooting that beer commercial in Thailand three days from now," he reminded him. He rattled off a few other projects that would take Aidan from one end of the globe to the other, including being interviewed on Good Morning Britain the very next morning.

Aidan nodded and sighed as Quentin ticked off the various projects and appearances he was committed to. "Yes, yes. I'll ... try to get some rest. Thank you, Quentin. Good night." He ended the call and shut down his cell phone, tossing it onto the nightstand next to his bed.

"Bloody buggers don't know a hit show when it's already jumped up and bit them in their bloody bums!" He ran the fingers of both hands through his already unruly hair and wondered why he continued to put himself through the wringer of an actor's life. Was he just a glutton for punishment? After nearly 30 years in the business, beginning with him starring in a toy commercial at age two, he knew the answer. He loved acting. He loved bringing characters to life whether for stage, screen, or television. And now shows were streamed on the Internet, of all things. The possibilities were endless and one day he even hoped to create shows or movies himself; work behind the cameras. As frustrating as it was to endure a hit show being cancelled or not given a second season, he still had to admit that he wouldn't trade his chosen profession for any other in the world. But he also wondered to himself if the character he'd portrayed in the mini-series, the so-called Undying One, had really existed or not.

"Impossible," he concluded with a vigorous shake of his head. "No one lives forever."


	30. The Morgan Chronicles Ch 30 END

**Many thanks to all who have left comments/reviews. Your comments are always appreciated and help keep me focused on the next update(s).** **It's really encouraging to know that you've all found this little story that popped into my head entertaining or interesting.**

vvvv

Nearly four months after the final episode of "The Morgan Chronicles" had aired on the BBC America Channel, the fan letters still arrived at both the morgue and the antique shop for the Immortal ME albeit in a steady trickle instead of a stream. It would seem that the general public had either grown more comfortable with him or their attention was now focused on the latest "celebrities" and/or forms of entertainment which once again allowed him a more relaxed work commute. Nevertheless, he still found that he had to dodge an occasional request for either his autograph or a selfie. And, although he felt it would never truly be the same as it had been at work, the environment had also settled back down to where he felt his days were once again as productive as they had been before the airing of the TV show.

Most appreciated by him through all of this were his closest colleagues, who, along with Abe and Jo, now knew about his secret of immortality and had accepted him. Accepted him as a friend. That meant more to him than any of them could ever know. He had friends again. Although he knew that they still regarded him as being a little weird, a tad too eccentric and far, far behind the modern times in many areas, he felt that they now understood him a little better. The realization would hit him at the oddest times, such as during an autopsy or in the middle of explaining a COD to whomever. While shaving or just before ordering a drink or meal, catching him off guard. Delightedly so, though; prompting a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth and for him to slowly shake his head in pleasant disbelief each time. But more than once he'd had to stop himself from laughing out loud because of one of Lucas' famous (infamous) observations.

 _"Ya know, your 10GG Nephew Henry doesn't actually look all that much like you now that he's gotten a new lease on life and joined the jet-setting crowd. Got more of a ... Harry Connick, Jr. thing goin' on, if you ask me." Lucas had inhaled and exhaled before adding, "Even so, looks like you're still the main GQ in your family, Big Guy."_

Much to everyone's surprise (except Lucas') his 10X great-grandnephew and niece, Henry and Cynthia, had made an unannounced visit to the shop three months ago, having chosen to deliver the letters, portraits, and Nora's diary in person.

 _"What a pleasant surprise!" the ME had told them with his eyes popped wide open in wonder. "But you needn't have taken the trouble of bringing them yourselves," he informed them, cringing slightly with embarrassment._

 _"Oh, no trouble. No trouble, at all," the nephew happily replied with a wide grin that matched his sister's. "Truth be told, you're one of many stops we're making here in New York. Taking the grand tour tomorrow."_

 _"Not with just any tour company, I hope," the ME asked. "You want to make sure you get your money's worth."_

 _"No," the niece piped up. She then lowered her eyes demurely and said, "A trusted ... friend."_

 _"Come now, dear sister, don't be shy," her brother teasingly chided her. "Her friend, Lucas," he whispered aloud with his hand pressed sideways against his mouth as if shielding his words from her. Turning to Abe, he added, "Our family tree may soon be expanding." He grinned broader as she'd blushed a deep red and given him a backhanded slap against his upper arm._

vvvv

Business at Abe's Antiques was also changing. The crowds in front of the shop had dwindled to less than a fifth of the size they'd been at the height of the show's popularity but it appeared that the shop's Internet presence remained greatly enhanced. Online sales had increased nearly 48% at their highest and settled down to 32% above what it had been for all of the previous five years.

"Whew!" Abe exclaimed. "That TV show was just what the doctor ordered, if you'll excuse the pun," he added. "Business isn't exactly booming but it certainly has more of a pulse because of the show." He happily finished tallying the day's receipts and immediately began formulating in his mind a plan to move more items out of storage and into the shop's retail area.

 _'Wow,' he realized to himself. Haven't had to do that in eight years.'_

He looked up sharply at the sound of the bell tinkling over the shop's door and smiled as he closed the ledger book and put it away in a drawer under the counter. He cheerily greeted his father with a huge grin. Henry drew near him and they exchanged a warm hug.

"Uh, where's Jo?" Abe asked, stepping out of the embrace.

"She said she'll be by a little later, after dinner." Henry turned around with his hands shoved down in his pockets as his eyes roamed over the remaining items in the retail area and his brow knitted a tiny bit. Turning back to face his son, he stated, "You've sold most of my belongings."

"Dad," Abe began, "those things were - "

"Taking up needed space," Henry finished for him. He nodded and looked around again at the shop, half-empty of elegant chandeliers, hand-carved credenzas, ornate lamps, one-of-a-kind clocks, and delicately-fashioned jewelry. Abe watched the melancholy overtake his father's features.

"I ... well ... maybe I did go a little overboard selling all that stuff but, but - ," Abe began uncertainly.

"It's time we let them go," Henry quietly finished for him again. "Time that I let them go," he emphasized even more quietly. "Not good to hang onto the past. We have ... so much to look forward to now."

Abe relaxed and smiled as he placed his arm around his father's shoulders. They stood together in silence viewing the shop's remaining items. "You said it, Pops," Abe quietly agreed, giving his father's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

As promised, Jo joined them later on that same evening just in time to enjoy coffee with one of Abe's more intricate but tempting desserts, tiramisu.

"Um, um, Abe," Jo purred around a tasty mouthful. "This is delicious!" She shook her head in mock sadness. "I will never be able to cook anything like this," she poutingly admitted to Henry.

"Never you mind, Jo," Henry assured her with a warm smile. "Your presence during my dinner meal is sweeter than any dessert." Jo's mouth popped open as she rapidly blinked her eyes. Her mouth then clamped shut, turning into a wide smile. Abe, less impressed, rolled his eyes and threw his napkin down with a grunt onto the table.

"And that's my cue to exit," he announced, rising. "That last line just took me over the daily limit of my sugar intake." Henry and Jo shared a hearty laugh as Abe walked quickly to the stairs and began his descent into the shop below.

"We'll take care of the cleanup, Abe," Henry called after him.

"You betcha will," Abe grumbled back at him, causing them to laugh again.

They sat in an easy silence for several moments as they consumed the last of their portions of the dessert. Jo was the first to speak.

"Abe says that, um, you haven't yet gone through the things that Henry and Cynthia brought you from the cottage," she quietly stated before sipping from her coffee cup. "Aren't you even curious?" she asked.

Henry inhaled slightly and puffed it out with a quick sigh. "When I first learned of them, yes. But now ... " his voice trailed off and he rose from his chair. He slowly walked to the other side of the table to stand near her. He then placed his right hand on the back of her chair and held out his other hand to her. Understanding, she let him pull her chair out and she placed her hand in his and stood up. They walked hand-in-hand from the kitchen into the sitting room as he continued.

"So much has happened between then and now - good things - that I no longer feel the need to glean anything from those writings." Once they'd sat down on the couch facing each other, he lowered his head with a soft smile. "Of course, I've nothing against viewing whatever portraits there are, but even that no longer holds any urgency for me."

"It's ... what's in her diary, isn't it?" Jo asked, a concerned and sympathetic look on her face.

He started to reply, stopped, then started again. "Yes."

Jo nodded, pulling her lower lip in and rubbing his shoulder.

He looked at her, then looked away, his eyebrows slightly raised. "I've no desire to read what's in her diary, either about me or her life after ... after we were no longer man and wife. Whether the mini-series got it right or not, no longer matters to me." He looked at her again and lifted their clasped hands, pressing his lips to the back of hers. "Only my life now matters to me. My life with you, Jo."

Jo smiled into a soft, quick kiss with him. He then, wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into a tight embrace, resting the side of his head against hers. His eyes closed and a look of pure contentment lay over his face. Jo's eyes, likewise, closed as they first embraced but she opened them with a slightly troubled look on her face. She'd been so looking forward to reading his first wife's diary. The woman who'd fallen far short of her wifely duties, in Jo's eyes, when she failed to believe her loving husband's bewildering tale of becoming an Immortal. Nora's decision to have him committed to an insane asylum and leave him there to rot had left him with emotional scars that had stayed with him for over two centuries!

She didn't really want to hate the woman. Someone who'd lived and died over a century ago and, apparently, had paid dearly for her missteps with Henry. Jo wasn't quite sure what could be found in Nora's diary, either, to maybe help her understand the woman better. The woman. She had to laugh at herself for referring to his first wife that way. But whenever she was angered enough at someone, they tended to lose their name and status as a regular human being in her eyes. She simply had growled their gender at them. In fact, she wished that she could reach across time and punch the woman in the nose for what she'd done to her Henry. This gentleman and gentle man that she held in her arms right now. However, her anger with Nora gradually melted away as he entered her thoughts. Gently running her fingers through his soft, dark brown curls at the back of his head, her eyes closed again and her face began to glow with contentment, as well. Pretty difficult to entertain venomous, vengeful thoughts while in his loving embrace, she admitted to herself.

vvvv

Four months and one week after Henry, Jo, Abe, Mike, Reece, and Lucas had viewed the mini-series' finale at Jo's home, they all found themselves gathered once again in the sitting area of the antique shop's living quarters. The meeting had been arranged two weeks prior, but only after Henry had slow-cooked a plan for months over when and how to tell them about his Immortal enemy, Adam. Had it not been for encouragements and proddings from both Jo and Abe over the past few months, he firmly believed that the meeting still would not be happening.

He looked around at all of them seated in various spots around the room, their eyes trained on him expectantly. Mike and Lucas occasionally glanced curiously at either Abe or Jo because it was believed that they were the only other two who already knew what he was about to share with them. The Lieutenant, though, kept her eyes on Henry. Not in an intimidating or threatening manner, but more to let him know that she was of an open mind to hear what he had to say but also that it was time.

Gathering his last bit of courage from Jo and Abe, he took in a deep breath before relating to them, his increasingly disturbing encounters with the much older and insane Immortal, Adam, aka his former psychotherapist, Dr. Lewis Farber. Henry began in much the same way as he had when he'd told Jo about Adam some months earlier. And their reactions were, understandably, just about the same, prompting them to refocus their efforts on possibly permanently containing the troublesome Immortal.

"He calls himself ... Adam."

xxxx


End file.
